


High Hopes

by bornonthewrongside



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2018-07-24 20:56:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 25,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7522834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bornonthewrongside/pseuds/bornonthewrongside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off the music video for High Hopes by Kodaline. </p><p>Sandor Clegane goes to a field to kill himself, but when he's about to do it, he sees a woman running from her wedding. She sees him, and asks him for help. They leave together, but who is going to help who?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Get In

The soft golden rays of light skirted across the dewy field. The early morning was welcomed by songbirds. Tall trees swayed with the breeze; a natural symphony played around the world. But it was silent to him. There was no music in his ears. He no longer felt the happiness that captivated the rest of the world. He felt no joy at seeing the sun rise and set, at hearing the waves crash against the shore. There was no happiness left inside him. 

 

Sandor Clegane pulled his old breaking car into the field. A field he used to play in when he just a little boy. He thought it suited him, coming to end his life where all his happiness stopped. He placed one of his large hands over his scarred face, remembering the exact moment when his face was pushing into the burning coals. He remembered it so vividly because he lived it over and over, each night when he went to bed.  _ No more,  _ he thought. 

 

People avoided him in the streets. They refused to make eye contact with him. Children cried when they saw his face. Sandor had resorted to staying in his small cabin for most of his time - only going into town when he absolutely had to. He made his money from the paintings he did, or the wood sculptures. He ordered his groceries to be delivered to his home. He had nobody to talk to in over ten years. He had convinced himself he was okay with it - but he wasn’t. He hadn’t been okay in a long time.

 

He stopped the car under one of the only lone trees in the field. It wasn’t difficult to drive to this field - there was a church off to the side with a cemetery connected. Cars often drove back here anyway. Someone would most likely find him within the next couple days. But no one would mourn him - he had no one. 

 

Sandor put the car in park. Leaning his head back, he stared at the dirty ceiling. His grey eyes were dry, and he wondered if he should be crying. He didn’t know. Sandor didn’t know how to do any of this. He didn’t write a note because no one would want to read it. He didn’t have any one. And that was okay with him, he didn’t need anyone. Not anymore. The nightmares would finally stop. His pain would stop. Everything would be done. 

 

He reached into the backseat and grabbed the hose he would use to connect the exhaust to the cab of his car. He read that this was less painful than other ways. And he was a coward. With deliberation, Sandor stepped out of the car and proceeded to tape the tube to the exhaust pipe, and bring it back to the window. He read that it would take upwards of ten minutes. 

 

That time could let him rethink everything, even though he knew he wouldn’t.  _ A gun would be easier,  _ he thought to himself. Sandor shook his head. He bent down into his car. He closed the door. With shaking fingers, Sandor took swig out of his flask. He was ready. 

 

***

 

“Come back!” A man’s voice jolted Sandor’s eyes open. He had closed them, waiting for peace to come. 

 

He looked out the window to see a woman with long red hair running down from the church. She had a heavy white gown on, and veil that covered her face. Her steps were uneven as she sprinted; he could see her chest heaving in and out, gasping for air.

 

“Sansa, come back!” The man’s voice grew louder. He stood in the middle of a large group watching over the woman run away. He had bright blond hair and his face was darkening with anger each second. 

 

Before Sandor knew what he was doing, he got out of the car. She must have saw him, this Sansa, because she started running towards him. She stopped about three meters from him. Staring at his face for a few moments before she opened her mouth to speak. 

 

“Please,” Her voice was choked with tears. 

 

“You can’t leave!” The man, Sandor assumed was the groom, yelled. 

 

“Get in,” He said roughly as he made eye contact. She didn’t flinch at him. 

 

He went to the back of the car, and pulled out the tube, and dropped it, forgetting to bring it back with him. He looked back up the hill and saw the man standing there, still yelling inaudibly. The rest of the crowd dissipated, but he watched the girl get into Sandor’s car with difficulty. Sandor wanted to laugh, really, truly laugh for the first time in ages. 

 

Sandor looked at the girl, and went over to her door. He pushed the dress in, and shut the door, making sure she was completely in. He saw her ripped the veil off her head; he had to stop himself from gaping at her. Quickly, he went to the other side, and clicked his seatbelt on. He glanced at her again. 

 

She was the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen. She might have been one of the only women he had made eye contact with in years. But she, she was a goddess. Soft freckles dusted her porcelain skin, and though her makeup started smearing across her face, Sandor could tell she would never need it. She had wide blue eyes that reminded him of the sky just after the sunset, but it wasn’t completely dark. Her lips were unnaturally pink, and even that was smeared. She brought her hands to her hair, and tried pulling out knots. She looked at him then, blowing out a big breath. 

 

Reflexively, Sandor grabbed his flask, but instead of taking a drink, he offered it to her. 

 

She took it with a small smile. 

 

“I’m Sandor,” he said. 

 

“I’m Sansa.” She took a swig, and let out a sigh. “Thank you.” 

 

Sandor didn’t know what to say. He breathed in himself, and looked over at her as he turned on to the highway. 

 

“Is there anywhere I can take you?”  

 

Sansa’s lip started to quiver, and then she bit it. She tried fighting the tears, but it was useless. “I don’t have anywhere.” 

 

Sandor didn’t even see another option, “You can stay with me, as long as you need.” 


	2. This Is Lovely

The drive from Sandor’s house to the field didn’t seem that long to him. But the drive to his house from the field took ages. He knew realistically the drive was two hours, but it never felt that long to him. He contributed the slowing of time to the woman who sat in the passenger seat next to him. Sansa Stark hadn’t spoke much, but she did drink most of his whiskey. Not that he blamed her. Now she was drifting in and out of sleep. He glanced over at her from time to time. This was not how he planned his day to go. 

 

There was still a half hour of the drive left. He braked at a red light in a small town that consisted mainly of a bar and a church. Sansa stirred next to him, she lifted her head. Her eyes were swollen from both sleep and crying. She looked around, confusion plain in her features. 

 

“Where are we?” Her voice was rough. 

 

Sandor cleared his throat, “Piss poor town, don’t even know the name.” 

 

Surprisingly, this drew a chuckle from Sansa. 

 

He looked over at her, “What is it?” 

 

“I don’t know. I just find it so funny. Oh gods, I need a drink.” Sansa went for the flask again, and took a small swig. 

 

“Well, you’ve drunk almost my whole flask already.” 

 

“Did you want some?” Sansa held the flask out for him, and Sandor had a feeling that this fleeing bird might be a bit of a lightweight. 

 

“Not while I’m driving,” Sandor said. He adjusted his back against the seat. He had never remembered the drive being this long before. 

 

“I guess I should thank you,” she whispered. “Properly.” 

 

“What do you mean?” No one had ever thanked him before, for anything. 

 

Sansa didn’t answer right away; he heard take a couple breaths before her voice sounded. “You didn’t have to help me. You could have ignored me, brought me back to Joffrey, but you didn’t. Now, you’re taking me to your home, because I have no where else to go.” 

 

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up, I could be taking you to my murder house for all you know.”  It was the first joke he attempted in years. 

 

“Anything is better than marrying that man.” She started laughing. “You have no idea.” 

 

“Aye, I guess I can’t. But don’t trust too easily, Stark. You  _ will  _ get hurt.” Sandor sounded bitter, and he didn’t care. 

 

He was aware that she was now staring at him, and he was thankful his scars were away from her. He wanted to put some sense into her, but he knew he would only terrify her with his scars. Sandor refused to squirm under her gaze. 

 

“I don’t know what you were doing out there today, but I am thankful that you were there.” Her voice was sober now, all the mirth drained from her soft voice.

 

Sandor didn’t answer right away, but instead focused intently on the road and his foot on the gas pedal. “I think we both know what was happening out in that field, just as we know what was happening behind the doors of your relationship.” 

 

His words were harsher than he intended, but he didn’t care. There was no point in skittering around what they both knew: he tried killing himself and she was abused. 

 

She stared at him with her mouth hanging open in disbelief. He was certain she was going to start crying. But she didn’t. She proved to be stronger than that. 

 

“I was trying to be polite, but I’m guessing no one has taught you manners.” Sansa sunk into the seat and leaned her head back. 

 

“No need for manners when all you have is yourself,” He muttered it quietly enough that he hoped she wouldn’t hear. He clicked the blinker on, and started turning onto the desolate dirt road. 

 

As he continued down the road, he heard the girl tense up. The folds of her dress shifted as she tried to make herself smaller. Her hair was falling out of the intricate updo that was in place hours before. Her makeup smeared around her eyes and lips. Her long fingers tapped against the glass of the window. 

 

“You can relax.” He told her before he realized he said something to her. 

 

“What?” As she sat up the fabric rustled again. 

 

“I’m not going to rape you, or murder you. I don’t even know why the hell I took you with me.” He furrowed his brows as he looked for deer. 

 

“Could it be because it was the right thing to do?” She said quietly. Her hands now twitched with agitation. Apparently the mention of rape and murder did not have the effect Sandor intended. 

 

“I wouldn’t know.” 

 

She didn’t respond to him.

 

He glanced over at her before turning into his driveway. Her eyes were focused on the outside, watching the trees slowly pass by. He saw the diminished wood pile and the old ratty shed behind the porch. He would have to cut more wood by the end of the week. 

 

“Is this your home?” Sansa asked. 

 

“Aye, this is what it is. He undid his seatbelt, and reached around to the back seat to grab a bag. He looked up to see Sansa watching him. “Well, are you going to sleep in the car or go inside?” 

 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” She quickly followed his suit, and unbuckled the belt. She pushed the door open, and slowly stepped out of the car while picking up the dress. 

 

Sandor walked up the steps to his front door, and pulled his keys out of his pocket. As he fished them out, he realized this was the first time in over five years someone else was in his house. A slight panic took over him before he forced himself to get over it. It wasn’t like she would be here if she had any other choice. He didn’t even know if she be staying the night. 

 

He unlocked the door, and looked back at her walking up the steps. He didn’t know how she could do it in that dress. Concentration was painted on her face as she walked. She looked up at him, and smiled. He had never seen a more gorgeous face. Even in its tired, messy, tear-stained state, she was as radiant as the sun. 

 

“Sorry for the mess.” He grumbled as he pushed the door open. He led the way, and held the door open as she walked in after him. 

 

The house was small. The first level had a kitchen with a round table in a nook, and connected to the living room that had a large window pointing to the woods. In between the kitchen and living room, there was a staircase and a locked door. The upstairs had one bedroom and one bathroom. The colors were jumbled and almost nothing matched. Whatever didn’t come with the house, Sandor had bought second-hand. 

 

He looked at her again, wary to see her disgust, Instead, he saw her smile. 

  
“This is lovely.” She sighed, and walked over to the table, “Do you mind if I sit?” 

 

Sandor just looked at her and shook his head. The table was stained by random paints, and dishes from last week sitting on it. He quickly went over, and threw them into the sink. 

 

“Are you thirsty?” He asked as her opened his fridge. 

 

“No, I think I’m okay.” She started playing with her hair, pulling out pins and letting her hair fall about her shoulders. 

 

He turned back around, and watched her for a few moments. Her left hand had a diamond ring on it. It tangled with her hair. Sansa pulled it out of her hair, and then off her hand. She looked around the kitchen and saw the garbage behind her; without a saying word, she threw it in the bin. 

 

“I don’t suppose you have a brush?” She smiled slightly. 

 

“I might,” he choked out. “I assume you need clothes too?” 

 

“If you’d be so kind.” Sansa smiled, and went back to her knotted hair. 

 

Sandor brushed past her, and walked up the creaky old steps into his ancient bathroom. The light flickered, and Sandor crouched underneath the sink to pull out a hairbrush that must have been from the nineties. It looked as if it had never been used, and that was more than likely the case. 

 

He crossed the hall to his bedroom. The dark grey comforter was pulled tightly across the bed, and the two pillows were lined at the top of the bed. Clothes were piled in the hamper next to the dresser and the open closet. Sandor went into the second drawer to pull out the smallest shirt he could find. Then he went into the next drawer - even his smallest pants would be much too large for her- and attempted to find something that would work for her. He found a pair of sweats with a drawstring. That would have to work. 

 

He went back down the stairs, and saw her walking around his living room, looking out the window. 

 

“I found these,” he said, and she jumped at the sound of his voice. “I hope they work for you. If not, we could go to the store and find something better.” 

 

“I couldn’t ask you to do that.” Sansa said as she grabbed the clothes from him. Their hands overlapped and brushed as she took them from him. Her hands were so soft. 

 

She started walking towards the stairs, but stopped at the door, “Is this the bathroom?” 

 

She asked as she open the door. He had forgotten to lock it before he left that morning. 

  
“No, that’s actually -” But he spoke too late, she swung open the door to a room that was larger than his bedroom, and was filled with paintings, sculptures, drawings, and etches. 

 

There wasn’t a single blank space on the walls.Even the ceiling was painted as if it were the night sky with hundreds of shooting stars. Paintings of landscapes, peoples, dogs, stores and shops lined the exterior. Charcoal and pencil drawings were smeared on the walls and large pieces of paper. The drawings were darker than the paintings, but they were just as beautiful.

Bright glass sculptures sat by a window next to a soft miniature canoe. The room was filled with art that showed years of progress.

 

“Oh my goodness,” Sansa whispered. She walked into the room, and set the clothes on the tables. She looked around with wonder in her eye. “Who did all of these?” 

 

Sandor looked at her uncomfortably, and she looked back at him with amazement. 

 

“Me,” was all he said.


	3. It's Meant to Be Felt

Sandor stood in the middle of a room he had never shown anyone with a woman he didn’t know. Sansa Stark, still clad in her wedding dress, walked around the room with amazement coloring her features. Her hands wanted to trace the paintings; they reached out for the art, but stopped short. 

 

“You did all of these?” She looked over at him, not in disbelief, but in wonder. 

 

Sandor awkwardly nodded, “Over the years, yeah.” 

 

She stopped in front of a painting of a street at dusk. He watched her examine the soft colors, the quick strokes of the lights, and details of the rain on the windows. Her hands kept creeping up, but she stopped herself from touching them. 

 

“You can touch them.” He said before he could stop himself. 

 

She looked back at him, scrunching her eyebrows together. 

 

“It’s art - it’s meant to be felt.” He got closer to her, but stayed out of arm’ reach. 

 

Slowly, she brought one delicate finger to the painting, and traced the lines. Then she moved to a dark charcoal drawing of a man in agony. It was on a sheet of paper roughly the size of a round tabletop. 

 

“Is this what you do?” She asked as her finger continued chasing lines. 

 

“It was.” She moved closer to him, and he could feel her near him. 

 

“No more?” 

 

Sandor moved away, and picked up a small vase. “No more. No need to.” 

 

Sansa looked around some more, and then looked to him. “I wasn’t supposed to see this, was I?” 

 

“No,” he said simply. It was the truth. He didn’t show anyone his work, not anymore.

 

Her face paled, “Oh gods, I am so sorry. I never would have come in here if I had known. I am sorry.” 

 

She quickly grabbed the clothes off the table, and raced out of the room. He watched her go, still holding the vase. 

 

“It’s alright,” he said to the empty room. He followed her, and found her standing the kitchen. 

 

“The bathroom is upstairs and to the left. Feel free to use whatever.” He rubbed his hand along the back of his neck. 

 

Sansa smiled at him, “Thank you.” 

 

He simply nodded as she walked up the stairs. Looking around the kitchen, Sandor turned on the sink and filled it. He put his hands in the hot water when he heard a string of incoherent curses from upstairs. He looked up, but heard nothing more. He started scrubbing at a plate when he heard it again. 

 

“Sansa?” He asked as he shook his hands of the soapy water. 

 

“Yeah?” Her voice was tensed. 

 

Sandor stepped on the first step and Sansa stuck her head out the bathroom door. 

 

“Everything okay?” He asked cautiously. 

 

“I can’t… I can’t get my dress off.” She went back behind the door, and he could hear the cursing much plainer this time. Her head came back out, “Can you help me… again?” 

 

He felt his face go red. “I… uh, yeah. Sure.” 

 

Taking the steps slowly, Sandor made his way to the bathroom. She opened the door fully to let him into the small bathroom. She had managed to get the dress down a quarter of the way, but it was stuck. Sandor breathed in deeply as he attempted to take the delicate fabric in his large hands. He pulled down, but nothing happened. 

 

“Sorry,” he mumbled when she stepped back towards him. He had  _ never _ been this close to a woman. They never let him this close.  _ Lie _ , he thought to himself,  _ they do if they’re drunk enough. _ But it’s been years. 

 

“It’s okay, can you try again?” Sansa gathered up her hair, and pulled it over one shoulder. 

 

Sandor went to the grab the zipper again, but faltered as he saw her back. It was scattered deep red with purple splotches across it. Not only the top, but it curved down her back, around her neck and her arms. His hands froze on the dress; nothing he imagined about this fleeing bird had been as close as this. No one could have guessed this was hid beneath her clothes. 

 

“Sandor?” She whispered. Her voice brought him back. 

 

“Sorry,” He said again. He tried pulling the zipper down again, but it wouldn’t budge. “It’s stuck, I can’t get it.” 

 

He tried again, and again. 

 

Sansa looked at him through the mirror, “Can you rip it?” 

 

Sandor looked at her, mostly because he couldn’t stand his own face. “I can.” 

 

“It’s not like I’m going to wear it again.” She tried to laugh. 

 

“Okay,” Sandor said, his voice faltering. “One, two, three.” On three, he ripped the dress from the zipper, and it almost fell completely past her waist. 

 

“Oh, shit.” He cursed, and immediately stripped the flannel he was wearing and put it over her shoulders. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… I’m going to go.” 

 

He shut the door, and Sansa hadn’t moved. 

 

***

 

The sun was almost completely set in the sky. Sandor walked over to the diminished pile of wood, and grabbed the worn axe. The handle fit perfectly in his hands. With swiftness and precision, Sandor brought the axe onto a log. It nearly split in two. He hit it again, and it cleaved. 

 

His mind raced as he continued splitting wood. Today was supposed to mark the end of his life. But now, now, he was here, in this house he had lived in for years, with a woman he didn’t know. A beautiful, broken woman. He felt her hands on his; he felt her bruised skin under his hands. Those bruises weren’t shallow. He had seen them before, felt them in fact, and they never came easily, and always from pure anger. 

 

What had Sansa Stark endured? 

 

Sandor hit the log with such strength it split on the first hit. He chucked the two pieces to the pile. Anger had started boiling inside him. Not at her, never at her, but at the one who had done it. He guessed it was the one who was screaming after her. The cunt. 

 

He dared a glance towards the house. She was still in the bathroom; he could see her plainly through the bathroom. She was combing her long red hair. The last rays of the sun held onto her; it was as if she were her own light source. 

 

Sandor shook his head, and placed another log onto the stump. She was only here because she had nowhere else to go, and he needed to remind himself of that. He would never be anything to her except for a place to sleep. He was fine with that, he lived as much less. 

 

He kept chopping wood until the sky had gone almost completely dark. As he stretched his arms up, he looked up to window and saw Sansa staring down at him. When they made eye contact, he saw her gasp, and turn away from the window. 

 

Minutes later, Sandor walked into the house, and kicked off his shoes. His whole body was stiff. He cracked his neck, and went into the kitchen. Sansa stood in front of the fridge, her hands full of food. She looked dwarfed by his clothes. 

 

“Excuse me,” he grunted as he went for a glass on the top shelf of the cupboard. 

 

“Oh, sorry,” She said as she tried to move out of his way. “Are you hungry?” 

 

He looked at her, “I could eat.” 

 

“I’ll make us something.” She shrugged her shoulders as she set the food on the counter, “It’s the least I could do, considering.” 

 

Sandor cocked an eyebrow at her, “Don’t think of it that way. You don’t owe me any debt.” 

 

Sansa looked at him, “I didn’t mean it like that.” Her voice was softer. 

 

“Good.” Sandor coughed, and nodded. “I’m going to take a shower. Just… just don’t burn my house down.” 

 

Sandor took the stairs two at a time. The bathroom air was still warm from when Sansa was in here, but that seemed to be the only trace of her. The dress was gone, and nothing was left on the counter. He didn’t see so much as a hair in the tub. There was nothing to prove that Sansa Stark had been in here, but he could tell. The air in his home was off. When it used to be still and cold, it was now warm and moving. He could hear her downstairs, and that alone was enough to nerve him. 

 

Sandor stood in front of the mirror, and took a proper look at himself. The first time in over a year. His scars were heinous and hideous. How she could look at him without cringing each time, he didn’t know. They had faded over the years, but there was no chance he could ever be considered normal. 

 

He turned away from the mirror, and took a very hot shower, attempting to forget every crevice of his deformed face.

 

***

 

The cold air hit Sandor like a wall when he opened the bathroom door. Steam rolled out into the hallway. Then he heard the humming. Soft, beautiful humming. He peaked his head down the stairs to see Sansa standing over a boiling pot, humming to herself. Her hair was still wet from her shower, and it left dark marks down the light grey flannel. Her feet were bare, and she moved them side to side in time with the tune. 

 

Sandor gripped the towel around his waist, and quickly went into his room. He slipped on a plain black shirt and grey sweatpants. He padded down the steps to hear Sansa singing softly to herself. He felt as if he were invading such an intimate moment. 

  
“ _ Softly, the wind blows the willow. Tell me mother, what will you have next? Now we run,”  _ Her voice carried over the house. Suddenly his house didn’t seem small, it was cozy. As if it was always meant for music. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> double update because i love you all


	4. You Need To Breathe

Sandor gazed at Sansa as she moved around his kitchen. She had made herself at home much quicker than he did. The pants she borrowed from him were cuffed up four times around the ankle, and the drawstring was tied tightly around her waist. The flannel she wore was rolled up to her elbows as she stirred a pan of rice. 

 

He wanted to speak with her, but he didn’t know how. He looked at her from across the living room, watching her movements. Just barely, he could notice how she moved her left arm stiffly compared to her right. The bruises still burned his eyes. 

 

She interrupted his thoughts, “I couldn’t find much, but I found some chicken and rice.” 

 

Shaking his head to clear his mind, “That sounds fine.” 

 

A smile played at her lips. It amazed him how much she smiled. He went months without a smile, but already today, he smiled more than he ever had.  _ I guess that’s what companionship does,  _ he thought bitterly. 

 

He stood up, his pants hung low on his hips the ends dragged the floor. Sandor brought his hands up, and stretched. A deep growl like sound came from the back of his throat. His back tightened and then loosened. He looked over at the kitchen to see Sansa looking at him again. He coughed awkwardly, pulled on his pants, and rubbed an arm against his nose. 

 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Sansa tried to search for the words, but failed. “Yeah.” 

 

“I know, I’m not pretty to look at, you don’t have to force yourself to do it.” The words came over reflexively. He knew that people hated looking at him; seven hells, he hated it too. 

 

But Sansa opened her mouth in horror, “No, I wasn’t thinking that at all. Gods, no.” 

 

She shook her head vigorously, as if the thought had never occurred to her. 

 

He let out a humorless laugh, “Yeah, whatever you say.” 

 

Sansa looked as if she wanted to say something, but shut her mouth. She turned back to the stove, busying herself with sweeping crumbs off the counter into her hands. 

 

The oven timer started beeping, and Sandor immediately went to take the chicken, not realizing that Sansa was also doing the same thing. They reached for the oven mitt at the same time, and his hand cupped hers. The warmth and the softness of her hand was abrupt; it took him three seconds to take his hand away. 

 

“Sorry,” They both said at the same time. 

 

He backed away, and gestured to the oven, “Go ahead.” 

 

“Well, it’s done after I cut this up. If you’re hungry?” She bent over the oven, and reached into and grabbed the pan out easily. She quickly dropped it on the stove while whispering, “Hot, hot, hot.” 

 

“Careful,” He said, his voice suddenly soft. He knew burns all too well. 

 

“I got it,” She looked over at him, and smiled softly. “I can set the table, you can wash up.” 

 

“Oh, okay.” He scrunched his eyebrows together. Sandor never at the table, or rarely used his kitchen for that matter. But he went into the bathroom nevertheless. 

 

As he walked back down the stairs, he saw the sad mismatched plates sitting on the table with the chipped glasses. He didn’t realize how sad his life was until there was someone else there. With heavy steps, he walked over to the table, and sat at the table, awkwardly waiting for Sansa. 

 

She turned towards him, holding the large skillet with the dinner. As she scooped some out for him, and then some for her, Sandor awkwardly smiled. What in the hells was he supposed to do? 

 

Sansa sat across from him, and gingerly bit into her food. She ate like a gods be damned queen. He took a bite, and then another. 

 

“Sandor,” Sansa said quietly. 

 

He looked up with his mouth full of food, “Yeah?” 

 

“Can I ask you about your art?” 

 

He sat up straighter, obviously uncomfortable. “If you want.” 

 

“If you don’t want to share, that’s fine. I was just curious - you’re so talented.” Her voice was softer now, almost timid. 

 

“There’s not much to tell; people don’t ask.” 

 

She looked up at this, her blue eyes wide like a doe’s. “No one at all?” 

 

“Aye, no one. I don’t have friends.” He set his fork down, and went into his fridge for a beer. 

 

“Any family?” 

 

“Dead,” He looked at her now, as he sat back down. Her face hid no emotions. 

 

“That’s… I can’t imagine.” She brushed at her eyes. 

 

“You have family?” 

 

“Yes,” she responded almost instantly. But her breath hitched, “I hope I still do.” 

 

Sandor didn’t know what that meant, but she looked as if she might break down, so he didn’t respond right away. This was completely new to him.

 

“Does this have to do with you fleeing your wedding?” He asked softly, or as softly as he could. 

 

She looked up at him, her eyes were naked and bloodshot. Her lip quivered slightly, “I guess it does.” 

 

Her hand lay on the table next her plate. Sandor looked at it, knowing he should give her reassurance, but he couldn’t get himself to make the contact. 

 

“You told me you had no one to call, or to come get you.” Sandor said dumbly. 

 

Tears spilled onto her cheeks, “My mother thinks I’m dead.” 

 

Sansa’s shoulders started to shake as real emotion took over. Sandor knew the smiling and chirping bird over the past hours could not be real. There was no way in the seven hells that a person with the marks, running for their life from a wedding could be fine. She was stronger than she let on, stronger than him anyway. Her hair fell into a curtain over her face. 

 

Sandor watched her from across the table. Holding her hand seemed inadequate, but he didn’t how to deal with a weeping woman. 

 

“Sansa,” he whispered. Not knowing what he was supposed to say, Sandor stood. She didn’t notice, nor did she hear him. 

 

“Sansa,” he repeated, “Sansa.” He reached to put a hand on her shoulder. 

 

With the slight touch, Sansa let the thin veil of composure vanish, and let out a wail. Sandor immediately gathered into his arms, ignoring all his insecurities and awkwardness. 

 

“Shh, Sansa,” he whispered as he brushed her hair down her back, careful not to put pressure onto her bruises. “Sansa, shh. Breathe, breathe.” 

 

He felt the tears wet his shirt as she clung to his shoulders. Her legs gave out, and Sandor held her up as she continued to fight the onslaught of convulsions. 

 

“She thinks I’m dead. My own mother,” Her words came out strangled; he could barely make them out.

 

“Sansa, you need to breathe.” He pushed hair out of her face, and tipped her chin up towards him. “You’re going to inhale on three, okay?” 

 

She nodded, the tears still coming down her face. 

 

“Okay, one, two, three.” He breathed in with her. “Now, hold it. Yes, okay, let it out. There you go, keep doing that.” 

 

Sandor slowly walked with her to his couch, and set her on there gently. She started breathing normally, but still made no move to let go of him. Sandor suspected this was the first time she had fully processed what had happened to her. 

 

“Oh gods,” She sat up now, wiping her face with the end of the flannel. “I’m so sorry about that.” 

 

Her voice was thick, but she was shaking her head as if they was stray piece of hair in her face. Sandor watched with amazement. 

 

“Sansa?” He asked hesitantly. 

 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” 

 

Sandor’s eyes widened in amazement. “You can feel whatever you need to.” 

 

“I think I’m just tired.” Sansa smiled awkwardly, licked her dry lips. 

 

Sandor wanted to say more; he almost did. Just what did that monster do to her? How could it come to where she could no longer show her true emotions? 

 

But instead he just said, “You can sleep in my bed tonight.” 

 

***

The next few days passed quietly. Neither of them mentioned what had happened at dinner. He didn’t speak much. He didn’t do much of anything - he couldn’t paint when he felt her there, he chopped more than enough wood, and he had already cleaned everything twice. He just tried to step out of her way whenever she was near. He didn’t know what to do if she started crying again, though he thought he handled the last time quite well. 

 

Now, Sandor stood outside his small house in his oldest pair of jeans and a ratty sweater. The air was cold today, but it felt good against his skin. He brought his hands up towards the sky and stretched fully. He hadn’t a restful night sleep on the couch, but he couldn’t kick Sansa out of his bed when he had offered it to her. He walked around the house once to check to see if there was anything he could do, but he found nothing wrong. 

 

His thoughts drifted to the little bird that was Sansa as he walked more. She hadn’t said much to him since that day, but even then she didn’t say much. He learned she had a mother - maybe. What else was she hiding in that pretty head of hers? 

 

As if something was reading his thoughts, he heard her. Her voice carried with the wind. She was singing that soft melody again. 

 

_ “Mother, what will you have next? Now we run through the fields of forgotten love. Tell me, father, have you forgotten me? Please, as the wind whips the willow, I call to you, mother, what will you have next?”  _

 

He saw her sitting underneath a tree behind the large woodpile. Her eyes were closed, and mouth moved as she sang the words to a melancholy tune. As he stepped closer, he snapped a branch. Like a doe, she sat straight up. 

 

“Sandor?” She called towards his direction. 

 

“Aye, it’s me.” He made his over to her. 

 

“Oh thank gods.” She put a hand over her heart. She still wore the same flannel from her first day here. 

 

“What are you doing over here?” He asked, his voice sharper than intended. 

 

“Nothing, really.” If she heard his tone, she ignored it. Instead, she looked around at the trees and wildflowers. “I used to live in the country.” 

 

“Is that right?” He moved closer now, and sat closer to the woodpile than to her. 

 

“Yes,” She smiled, a true smile as she thought back. “It was gorgeous - it snowed nine months out of the year, but it was still magical.” 

 

“Do you like the snow?” 

 

Sansa bit her lip as she thought, “I haven’t seen it in years. I love the memory of it.” 

 

“What do you mean you haven’t seen it?” Sandor scrunched his eyebrows together. 

She uncrossed her legs, and hooked her arms around one of them, “Well, Joffrey, my fiance, didn’t like it. He lived in the south where there was no snow, so whenever winter would come he cart us off to some foreign place that was hotter than the sun.” 

 

Though she laughed as she spoke, Sandor saw a sadness in her face. “Well, snow will be coming here soon enough. No worries about that.” 

 

She smiled at him, “I can’t wait.” She paused as she thought for a moment, “Sandor, how old are you?”

 

“What?” The question came from nowhere. 

 

“I’m twenty four.” She supplied, not answering his question. 

 

“I’m an old dog compared to you.” He laughed for a moment. Sandor took a moment to look around, to see the bright sun, to see the purple wildflowers blooming under the thick trees, to remember this feeling of… acceptance? “I’m thirty three.” 

 

“That’s not old. Old is at least thirty five.” She laughed her sweet laugh once more, and smiled sincerely at him, “You have two years yet.” 

 

“I’ll live them to the fullest then,” He promised as picked at the overgrown grass. 

 

“Could I ask another question?” 

 

Sandor gestured for her to go ahead. 

 

She took a deep breath that scared Sandor.  _ Don’t ask me why I was going to kill myself. Don’t ask me about that field.  _

 

Sansa bit her lip, “Can you show me your art?” 

 


	5. Miss a Single Thing

Pain was spread across the man’s face. His mouth was contorted into a horrifying scream. Hands grasped at the sides of his face. The drawing was in black and white.

 

“‘ _ Migraine’?” _ Sansa asked as she bent down and red the title. It was one of the first ones Sandor had done for a show. 

 

“Have you ever had one?” Sandor asked simply, trying not to shake as she looked at what was his life in art. 

 

“I guess not…” She looked back at the drawing, and got as close as she could without her nose touching the paper. “This is wonderful; you’re so talented.” 

 

Sandor didn’t know what to say, so he shrugged. His scars started itching, so he put his hands in his pockets to ignore it. 

 

“What does a migraine feel like?” She asked as she moved onto a simple painting of the skyline. He hated that one, but he had sold it many like for a nice chunk of change. 

 

“Well,” he thought for a second, “It’s kind of like, your eyes are the ropes for a tug-of-war game, and then your brain wants to grow, but it’s stopped by your skull so it’s just scraping. Sometimes you can’t see, and even a pin dropping hurts your ears.”

 

“Do you get them often?” 

 

“Used to. Everyday for almost three months.” 

 

She turned to look at him, her eyes wide, “Three months? Oh gods, that sounds horrific.” 

 

“I survived.” 

 

“Still,” Sansa shook her head, then walked to the paintings on the far side of the room. “These ones have a lot of fire.” 

 

Flames were in every single one, all in a violent manner. A house was burning to the ground; a little boy was being burned alive. A wildfire erupted, and the animals were rushing to get away.  She didn’t know that these were all from the same night. There was a reason these paintings were off to the side, mostly hidden. 

 

“Aye, they do.” 

 

“Are they part of a collection?” Sansa reached out to touch the one of a little boy clutching his face. She bent down to see the title, it read  _ Memories. _ “Memories? Sandor, this isn’t?” 

 

Her voice died down as she looked at him, and then the painting. Her mouth open in shock. 

 

“It was my brother.” He started, but stopped, a catch in his throat. He had never told anyone this story, not even the police when it happened. “My brother got mad when we were younger - I was playing with this stupid toy - and, and he pushed my face into our fire place. He ignored my screams and held me there. I was burned, and now I’m scarred.” 

 

He didn’t look at her as he spoke; he didn’t want to see her pity. 

 

“When you were a child?” She asked, but her voice sounded far away. He looked up now, and she was tracing the flames with her finger. 

 

“Yes, I had just turned seven.”

 

“Seven? Oh gods.” Sansa looked at him, and studied his face now. He wanted to cringe away from her, but he forced himself look back at her. Her eyes searched every crevice of his face, and her mouth moved as if she wanted to say something. 

 

“This one,” He said suddenly, anything to get her to stop staring at his face. He pointed to a large drawing of three dogs surrounding a wolf, “This one is one of my favorites.” 

 

“It’s a pack.” She said, smiling at him. Then something caught her eye under the table. He followed her eyeline, and saw one of his unfinished works was sticking out. “What’s that?” 

 

“That’s something I started, but I probably won’t finish it.” He never was planning on finishing it. 

 

“Can I see it?” She looked at him, her hands itching to move for it. 

 

Sandor shrugged. Sansa pulled out the large canvas; the background was made up of black and greys and the foreground was bright and lively with a single tree that held ripe fruit. He could see the pencil sketches of the outline; he had just started painting the woman under the tree. 

 

“Is this Persephone? And is that Hades in the back?” Sansa held the canvas gently in her hands, tilting it side to side to see all angles. 

  
  


Sandor looked over her shoulder. He was painting Persephone and Hades, but as he looked, Persephone looked like Sansa.He had started painting the hair and the skin already, and it matched her perfectly. “Yes.” 

 

“Are you going to finish it?” She looked up at him.

 

“I don’t know.” It was truth. He never planned on painting that in the first place. He couldn’t sleep one night, and instead of pacing, he went in here, and painted until the sun came up. Thoughts tumbled through his mind, nothing could clear it, not alcohol, not chopping wood, nothing. 

 

He gazed for her features; she was looking him in the eye. It’s been so long since that’s happened. 

 

“I hope you do.” She smiled, and handed the canvas over back to him. Their hands brushed over each other as he took it from her. 

 

There was something in her eye that made Sandor hesitate. Her hair fell over her face slightly, covering the smooth cheek. Wide blue eyes looked up at him, not asking him for anything, no hate or disgust. It was how he saw people look at others - like he was a person.

 

“You’re very kind.” Sansa whispered suddenly. She bit her lip, and let her fingers draw away from the canvas.

 

Sandor opened his mouth to say something, but could think of nothing. He was not a kind man - a monster, a dog, a shadow, yes. But never would he be considered a kind man, yet here stood the most beautiful woman he could ever dream of, standing among the art he created for no one but himself, telling him he was kind. 

 

“Say thank you, Sandor.” She smiled slightly, and bit her lip again.

 

“Ah - thank you, I suppose.” He set the canvas on the empty easel  near the center table. 

 

“You’re very welcome.” Sansa walked around the room again, her head looking up, as if she were trying to not a miss a single thing. 

 

“I need a drink,” Sandor clapped his hands together and left the room. He looked behind him to see if she had followed, but she had not. 

 

Sandor went to the tallest cupboard in the kitchen, and grabbed a very old, very expensive bottle of scotch. Taking a glass off the counter, he filled it almost to the top and gulped it down. 

 

“Sandor, is this what you do for a living?” Sansa walked out, crossing her arms in his flannel. The windows let in a cold breeze from the north. 

 

He finished his drink, and nodded, “Aye, for the most part.” 

 

“Did you always want to be an artist?” She reached for a cup on the counter, and poured herself a much smaller portion of scotch than he did. 

 

“No, not always.” He looked at his fingernails for a couple of moments. “I’ve worked odd jobs. A lot of construction, bodyguard a couple of times. But they were all temporary, never felt right.” 

 

“And does this feel right? Painting, sculpting?” 

 

“I don’t know. It’s lasted longer than anything else.” 

 

“What did you want to be?” She sat at the table, and she took the bottle with her, giving him little choice but to follow her. 

 

“I’ve never known; do you? Do you know?” Sandor took the bottle and poured himself out another drink. 

 

“You didn’t have any ridiculous dreams when you were growing up?” Sansa raised her eyebrows, “But I guess my dream when I was a kid was to be a princess or a queen. My mom always said I was built like royalty.” 

 

“Aye, I could see that. Very proper all the time.” 

 

“Yeah,” Sansa laughed slightly, and Sandor lost his heart for a moment, “I don’t see the point in being mean, you know? It does nothing but bring pain, and there’s more than enough pain in the world.” 

 

“Cheers to that,” Sandor brought his glass up, and she clinked hers gently against his. 

 

Sansa leaned back, and smiled into her drink. 

 

“What are you smiling about?” Sandor asked before he could stop himself. 

 

Sansa didn’t answer right away, but bit her lip as she always did. “Just thinking that you may be the nicest man I’ve ever met. Which is going to come as a surprise to you, I’m sure.” 

 

“Aye, a large surprise. Tell me, Sansa Stark, what makes you think I’m so amiable?” 

 

“I can’t believe you can’t see it.” Sansa set the glass down, and looked down at her hands. 

 

“See what?” Sandor knit his eyebrows in confusion. 

 

“I believe, quite strongly, that anyone who would bring a stranger into their home, offer them their bed, give them food, clothing, and everything else you have done for me, has to be one of the best people I could ever hope to meet.” 

 

Sandor shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Air couldn’t get into his lungs; “What?” 

 

“Sandor, you can be quite dumb, sometimes.” Sansa shook her head, “Sorry I didn’t mean that. I just, I haven’t had someone be so nice to me in such a long time. And I really mean that. I never had anyone to talk to. People were around me, yes, but I never could speak to them. Not really- all they wanted were soft courtesies, agreements, and well, that was about it. I… I, well, I guess we’re more alike than it seems.” 

 

Sandor looked at her, his mouth open as if he wanted to speak, but he dared not. He just stared, letting everything about this moment make sense his mind. Her hair kept falling over her cheek, and her naked eyes so much more beautiful than anything he had ever seen. Her lips were so expressive as she spoke; he could listen forever. 

 

“We’re not alike. If you were like me, your life would be quite different.” 

 

“Do you believe in fate?” 

 

“Fate?” 

 

“Yeah, the ominous thing that controls every decision we make. Whether or not you go to the supermarket today, or cross the street, or save a girl from a wedding. Do you believe in it?” 

 

“I’ve never thought about it.” Sandor lied. Had he thought about what could have happened if he never went into a stupid toy chest?  Or if he never went into the field? Of course he did, but he never gave it a name. 

 

“Well, Sandor Clegane, I think fate helped us. Both of us. Because whether you believe it or not, we’re more alike than you think. You spent most of your life an outcast, and I spent many years a plaything for others. You haven’t had a chance to express-”

 

“Sansa, what are you saying?” 

 

Sansa opened her mouth, “I… I don’t know. I just - thank you.” 

 

“How are you so optimistic?” Sandor tightened the cap on the bottle, and picked up the two glasses.

  
“I just have high hopes, always have.” Sansa smiled at him. “I’ll help with the dishes.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sure many of you are freaking bc i haven't posted in a little while, but i'm unpredictable, sorry! 
> 
> BUT guess what? i started college. so what else would i do with my first free day? write fanfiction obviously! 
> 
> love you all. xox


	6. A Small Smile, But A Smile Nonetheless

The long warm days gave way to long cold nights. The once bright blue sky grew to greys and overcast. Leaves on the trees became as brilliant as Sansa’s hair, then withered to the color of Sandor’s. Rain was more common in the mornings, and often created dense fog.

 

Weeks passed them by slowly. Sandor accustomed himself to having another person around him; he found himself smiling at random times because she would look at him, or that he was trying to create conversation where there used to be silence.

 

Sansa seemed to always have a song with her. He could hear her from across the house or the yard, but hadn’t bothered him in weeks. When it was silent, that was when it concerned him. 

 

Now, he stood at the sink, staring out the window, absent-mindedly scrubbing at an old pot that was stained beyond cleaning. Sandor closed his fist tightly as he scrubbed, the muscles in his forearm playing out. His thoughts strayed in and out, not really being able to focus on any one thing. The day outside was gloomy, but the clouds were beginning to patch apart, giving way to some sunlight. Dead leaves on the ground glistened from the rain earlier in the night. 

 

Sandor looked over at the stove to see the time was now reaching six in the morning. He straightened out his back, and stretched his neck and shoulders. He hadn’t had a good night’s rest in weeks. He glanced back up the stairs, knowing she was sound asleep in his bed, like she had been every night for the past months or so. He didn’t mind the aching body; it was worth it knowing the little bird was safe. 

 

_ Safe yes, but at what cost? _ He thought to himself. She was stuck here, just as he was. They hadn’t left the property in weeks. She had to be itching to leave, especially with just him for company. Anyone in their right mind would want to get away from him as soon as possible. But she hadn’t said anything. He wasn’t good enough with people to know anything with them plainly stating it. 

 

Beginning to feel a headache, Sandor started pacing in the living room towards the kitchen and back. His thoughts stopped suddenly when he heard Sansa from upstairs. A strangled scream shook him; before he could think, he was bounding up the stairs. He turned the corner so fast, he practically fell into his bedroom. 

 

Sansa stood by the bed, her hair in complete disarray. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her torso; she looked to be shaking. 

 

“Are you okay?” He crossed over to her. 

 

“There was… a spider on my face.” She moved her hair from her face, then quickly shook her hair out, as if she were afraid there would be a spider hiding. 

 

Sandor let out a breath, and tried his best to not laugh. “A spider?” 

“On my face!” She looked up at him, and quickly tightened her arms around herself again. The shirt she wore rose up her thighs, and he saw the faint marking of a scar winding from her hip to her knee.

 

He quickly averted his eyes, and then started making his way to the bed. “Do you know where it went?” 

 

“I think it went under the pillow.” 

 

Sandor grabbed an old dirty glass from the nightstand and brought his hand to the pillow. Quickly, he picked the pillow up to see a scurrying spider the size of a dime. He slammed the cup down on the mattress, and spider started climbing around the inside of the cup. 

 

“This little guy?” Sandor couldn’t help but laugh. 

 

“On my face, Sandor!” Sansa squealed. “Can you get him out of here now please?” 

 

Sansa made a face as she looked at the spider. She shuddered involuntarily. 

 

“Hand me that newspaper.” Sandor reached his hand out. Their fingers grazed each other slightly as he took the paper from her hands. With ease, Sandor slid the paper under the glass, and picked it up. 

 

“Want to hold it?” He smiled at her, straightening his arm towards her. 

 

Sansa squealed, and ran to the door. “Keep that thing away from me!” 

 

“Oh come on, Sansa. He’s barely the size of the tip of your pinky.” 

 

“Well, Pinky there, tried getting into my body, and I did not appreciate it.” She stepped back as he took a step forward. “Sandor, I swear…” 

 

“You swear what, little bird?” His smile turned mischievous. “It’s just a little spider.” 

 

“I don’t like spiders.” Sansa’s eyes were locked on Sandor’s arm. “Keep it away from me.” 

 

Sandor took a big step towards her, and she turned a fled like a deer. She was down the stairs in seconds. Sandor heard a chair fall to the ground. He casually made his down the stairs, and saw Sansa arm herself with the pot he was cleaning earlier. 

 

The only light came from the dying light bulb above the stove. The room was cast with shadows, the light from the morning sun had yet made it’s way above the trees. 

 

“Why do you have a pot?” Sandor still held the spider in his hands.

 

“You’re not coming near me with that thing.” She moved the pot in front of her to make a point; soap and water hit Sandor in the face and chest. Sansa bit her lip to stop from laughing. 

 

“I think,” Sandor paused to look her in the eye, “for that you should be the one who lets Pinky here free.” 

 

“I hate spiders.” Sansa shuddered again, but lowered the pot to the counter. 

 

“So you said, but it’s better than me flushing him, isn’t it?” Sandor walked to the sliding glass door, and held out the glass for her. 

 

“Well, you don’t have to kill him.” Sansa made a face again, but took the cup with the tips of her fingers. 

 

She stepped outside, and crouched down on the porch, and opened the paper from the cup, and dropped the cup on the porch. She jumped up, and ran back into the house. She shook her hands and then her whole body.  

 

“I saw it scurry out of the cup,” She made a gross noise, and then went to the sink to wash her hands. “I have to clean that whole room now.” 

 

“Now,I think that’s an over exaggeration,” Sandor rubbed at his face as he watched her scrub her hands together. 

 

“Not when I spend almost all my time in that room.” She rubbed her hands on a towel, and smiled at him. 

 

“Let’s leave then.” He didn’t even know what he said until he heard the words come out of his lips. 

 

“Where?” 

 

He thought for a moment, but then he smiled. A small smile, but a smile nonetheless. “I know the perfect place. Dress warm, little bird.” 

 

He got up to grab his jacket, and tug on his boots. 

 

“Sandor, where are you taking me?” 

 

“You’ll love it, I promise. Go get clothes on, go.” 

 

****

 

“Sandor, are we close?” Sansa asked like a small child on a roadtrip. 

 

They had only been in the car for twenty minutes, but Sansa had already asked three times. 

 

“Yes.” 

 

“You said that last time.” 

 

“And I meant it.” 

 

Sandor clicked his blinker on and turned into an empty parking lot. 

 

“What is this?” 

 

“Wait,” was all he said. 

 

“For what?” 

 

“Just follow me.” Sandor got out of the car. 

 

Sansa quickly followed suit. She wrapped her arms in Sandor’s old jacket, and hunched her shoulders up to protect her face. Silently, Sandor unwound the scarf from his own neck, and carefully wrapped it around her neck. 

 

“Oh, thank you.” Sansa blushed slightly, but Sandor chalked that up to the cool breeze. 

 

He let out an awkward cough, “This way.” 

 

Sandor stepped into the tall grass, and walked carefully on the uneven ground. Soon, the grass thinned out to soft sand. And the rhythmic sounds of waves against the shore could be heard.

 

“Sandor, where - oh.” She walked right up behind him, and bumped into him. “This is gorgeous.” 

 

The large lake was blue against the soft brown of the shore. Trees lined the edges, and birds could be heard flying overhead. No other person was in sight. 

 

“This is gorgeous.” Sansa whispered. 

 

He looked over at her, her head tucked into an old hat, her face half hidden in his scarf, and her body dwarfed by his jacket.  _ Not nearly as gorgeous as you. _

 

“Aye, it is. It’s one of my favorite spots.” 

  
Sansa walked towards the shore, and got close to the where the water was touching. The water would come up to just before her toes. He watched her as she watched the water. The weather had not gotten so cold that water was frozen, not yet. Soon enough, though, he knew all good things come to end. That’s why he never had high hopes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thought i dropped off the face of the earth? think again! 
> 
> love you all. 
> 
> now back to school work. :)


	7. Of Course

The turbulent water crashed persistently against the soft sands of the secluded shore. Winds whipped the tall grasses around in circles, as if they were yearning to be from their deep roots. Birds no longer flew in the sky, or floated aimlessly on the waters - the weather grew colder each day, but each day Sandor and Sansa came to this beach. 

 

Since Sandor got Sansa out of the house for the first time last week, she was a bird, striving for the freedom to spread her wings, but still too afraid to take those first steps. He watched her brighten as she stood at the edge of the waves. Her bruises have faded for the most part, and her natural radiance was beginning to breakthrough. The brilliance of her hair blew in the wind as she smiled to herself. She would begin to sing to herself, or start humming, and then look over at him. 

 

Gods, when she looked at him like that. 

 

“What are you thinking?” Sansa’s voice was almost drowned out by the wind. 

 

“Oh, nothing, little bird.” Sandor smiled one-sidedly at her. 

 

“I should thank you for the jacket - one that actually fits.” Sansa laughed, and walked closer to him; their arms were almost brushing. He was always aware of their proximity. 

 

“Well, I couldn’t let you go through the winter without some protection, could I?” 

 

“You could, you could do anything, but you have the heart of a knight.” Sansa bit her lip as she nudged into him. “Come on, let’s walk for a bit.” 

 

“We should be heading back soon.” Sandor looked back towards his car, and at the slowly setting sun. 

 

“To the chipmunks of the woods? Come on, big man, we have time.” Sansa smiled and took his hand in her own and started walking down the sandy beach. 

 

Sandor followed her with his hand in hers. 

 

“I love this time of year.” Sansa breathed in deeply. 

 

“The time of year everything dies?” He snorted a laugh, and then laughed a deep one when she cocked an eyebrow at him. 

 

“No, not because everything dies. Because everything changes, because it shows that everything ends, but it comes back. Which sounds ridiculous, like I’m trying to write some stupid line in a romance novel, but I don’t know. I just love how everything changes, its color become vibrant, and it gets cold.” 

 

“You’re chirping an awful lot today, little bird.” Sandor tightened his hand in hers for just a moment. 

 

Sansa’s face reddened, even more so against the wind, “Well, I can stop if you want.” 

 

“No, no. Don’t stop. I like listening to you chirp and sing. Tell me one of your pretty stories.” He was thankful his unscarred side was facing her, he could smile more freely. 

 

“My stories? I don’t think I have anymore. Why don’t you tell me one? I’m sure you’re a great storyteller.” 

 

“I can assure I am not, I haven’t had the practice you’ve had.” 

 

“Just because I’m not a recluse like you doesn’t mean I’ve had practice telling stories to entertain people.” Sansa laughed, and nudged her shoulder into him, “I think you should tell me one.” 

 

“I can tell you one of a hound, a sad old dog.” Sandor looked around to make sure no one else was there, and he was becoming increasingly aware of her hand wrapped around his, and how warm it was becoming. 

 

Sansa stifled a yawn, “I don’t want to hear a sad story.” 

 

“Getting tired?” Sandor slowed his steps until they came to a stop towards the end of the beach. 

 

“No,” Sansa tried to stop another yawn, but couldn’t. “Okay, maybe a little.” 

 

“We should start getting back; it’s almost dark anyhow.” 

 

“We can’t be out in the darkness, now can we?” Sansa winked at Sandor, and gripped his hand with hers, and laid her head against his arm as they walked. “Have I thanked you recently?” 

 

“Not within the last hour.” Sandor mumbled as he looked at watch. 

 

“Thank you, big man.” Sansa whispered as she closed her, blindly following him along the beach back to his beat up, old car.  

 

***

 

Sansa laid her head against the cold glass of the window and was fast asleep while Sandor followed the twists and the curves of the road. He looked over at her, and saw her mouth hanging open, and her hair in a mess across her face, but gods, she was the sun. 

 

He turned slowly into his driveway, and the car rattled up to it’s usual spot hidden behind the garage.

 

“Sansa, time to get up.” He reached over, and nudged her arm gently. 

 

“Mmm.” And she opened her eyes, but closed them just as fast. 

 

“Sansa, do I need to carry you inside or are you able to get in yourself?” He asked sarcastically. 

 

“Hmm.” Sansa moved her arms to undo her seatbelt, “Carry.” 

 

Her eyes fluttered opened slowly, and she smiled at him. 

 

“You cannot be serious, Sansa.” Sandor smiled despite himself.

 

“You offered.” She whispered in her soft, groggy voice, and smiled. 

 

Sandor got out of his seat, and went around the car. He reached in for Sansa, and gathered her into his arms, and kicked the car door shut. 

 

Sansa curled herself into his neck, and breathed in deeply. She felt like nothing in his arms, but she fit perfectly. Quietly, he walked up to the stairs and turned into what was his bedroom, and set her gently on the bed. She made a soft sigh, and turned into the pillows. 

 

“Goodnight, little bird.” Sandor gazed at her for a few moment before going downstairs to drink the last of his whiskey. 

 

***

 

“No! Please gods, no! No, no, no!” 

 

Sandor shot off the couch the moment he heard her voice. As she kept screaming, he sprinted up the stairs. He ran through the opened door to see a small Sansa rocking back and forth in the corner, tears streaming down her face. 

 

“Sansa?” Sandor stood at the foot of the bed not entirely sure what to do. “Sansa?” 

 

Sansa continued to violently shake as she tried to take a breath to talk. Choked sounds were coming out of her throat. “I...I…” 

 

“Sansa, do you want…” He didn’t know what he was saying. He had no idea what she would want, what she would need. “Can I…” 

 

Her face scrunched as she looked at nothing ahead of her. “I felt him on me.” 

 

“Sansa?” 

 

“I can still feel his hands.” Her hands grabbed at her hair as she relieved the memory. “I keep thinking he’s gone, but he keeps coming back.” 

 

Sandor took a small step forward, but felt entirely helpless.

 

“I remember his hands, I can feel their eyes. Oh gods, why won’t it stop? Sandor, why won’t it stop?” Sansa tried to stand up, but Sandor crouched down next her. 

 

She collapsed into his chest, so much different than the six hours earlier. 

 

“Sh, Sansa, sh.” Sandor brushed her hair out of her face. “Breathe with me, okay? In, come on.” 

 

Sandor continued to breathe with her in the corner of his run down bedroom, trying to pretend that he could handle this. But on the inside, if she could feel his heart, she would feel the erratic rhythms that matched his emotions. He was terrified, angered, scared, and everything in between.

 

“When does it end? When does it go away?” Sansa asked as she wrapped herself in Sandor’s lap. Her tears were still flowing, but she was breathing evenly. 

 

“I don’t know, little bird. I wish I had an answer for you.” Sandor stroked her hair repeatedly as his other hand traced patterns on her arm. His back was against the wall, and his legs were outstretched, and Sansa was curled on his lap. 

 

He didn’t know when they had become so physically carefree, but here they were. 

 

Minutes passed by now in silence, Sandor was convinced she had fallen asleep again. He scooped her up, and got to his feet. He shuffled the few steps to his bed, and laid her gently on the bed once more. 

 

“Don’t go.” Sansa whispered as he was setting her down. 

 

“What?” Sandor turned his head to look at her. 

 

“I don’t want to be up here by myself. Please, stay with me.” Her eyes were swollen, and her bottom lip quivered as she looked up at him. 

  
Sandor took a shaky breath in, “Of course, little bird. I’ll stay.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love you all. <3


	8. He Could Paint Again

The soft, consistent sounds of her breathing calmed Sandor as he woke with a jerk in his own bed, that was no longer his own. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he dragged himself away from his dreams. His arm was under Sansa’s torso, and she was curled away from him, but he felt her hands clutching his. Taking his free hand, Sandor wiped his face. His own breathing was ragged, and he tried to shake off the memories of his recurring dreams. Shifting slightly, Sansa groaned in protest. 

 

He looked over at her as best he could with the morning sun reigning in, blinding him. The sun soaked into her hair, creating a brilliance of red and gold. She wore an old t-shirt of his, frayed and holey in many spots. Through the holes, Sandor could see pink scars. The were faint, but they were still protruding from the smoothness of her skin. Hesitantly, he reached out a finger, and traced the scar through the hole. He barely touched her, but her skin prickled around his finger. Her hands twitched in his, and he pulled the finger back, scared to wake her. 

 

“Sansa?” He whispered as quietly as he could. He wasn’t sure if he even spoke.

 

Carefully, he moved her hair off to the side to see the scars better. He had seen them before, when she had begged him to take the dress off, but he hadn’t really looked. Or he did, he just couldn’t remember. Looking at them now, Sandor felt anger develop in his gut - these scars, both fresh and old, went deep. Deeper than the skin, he imagined. His hand pressed harder than he meant, and she stirred. 

 

“Sandor?” Sansa turned on his arm, and smiled sleepily at him. 

 

“Little Bird,” was all he said. 

 

“Did you sleep alright?” Sansa tried to stifle a yawn, but failed, and opened her mouth wide enough for Sandor to see her tonsils hanging in the back of her throat. 

 

“Or do you still need to sleep?” Sandor laughed softly, as Sansa tried to block another yawn. 

 

“No, I’m awake.” She smiled at him again, her face shadowed as she faced him.

 

“It’s only been a couple of hours, I’m sure you could sleep for a few more.” Sandor held back his hand from brushing the hair off her shoulder. 

 

“No, I think this is the best sleep I’ve gotten since I’ve been here. It wasn’t as cold, don’t you think?” She rested her head on her arms, and Sandor’s arm was still under her torso. 

 

“I was able to stretch out, which was a nice change from the couch.” He started play with the ends of her hair that fell into his hand. 

 

“You could have asked me to sleep on the couch; I’m sure I fit much better on there than you do.” 

 

“I couldn’t do that,” Sandor half-smiled at her, careful to not contort the scarred side of his face. 

 

“Yes, you could have. All you had to do is ask,” Sansa snuggled in closer. “You are like my knight in shining armour. Anything I can do for you I will.”

 

Sandor looked past her, still blinded by the damned morning sun, trying to not freeze as she touched him. Abruptly he stood up, and started out of the door. 

 

“Sandor?” Sansa called after him. 

 

He turned around, and leaned against the doorframe, pulling at his old sweatshirt. He avoided looking directly at her.

 

“Is there something wrong?” She looked at him with her wide blue eyes that were still swollen from sleep. 

 

“I - just, your back. What happened?” He couldn’t stop himself from spewing the words out. He felt the scars with his own hands, on her body and his own. He knew the pain that went into each bump along the skin, and he couldn’t handle knowing that she had gone through something similar to his own suffering. 

 

“My back?” Sansa’s hand immediately went to the shoulder blade that Sandor was tracing minutes ago. “It happened, what, years ago? It’s over, it’s done.” 

 

“Do you still feel it?” Sandor brought a hand to the back of his neck, feeling more awkward by the moment for even bringing it up. 

 

Sansa got to her knees on the bed. Her shirt hung to mid-thigh, and the sleeves engulfed her arms. 

 

“Do you still feel what happened to your face?” She looked him in the eye; there was no shyness in what she asked, as how it usually was when she spoke to him. 

 

He looked at her, in her barely woken up state, and could just think that the gods had really hated him. 

 

“Yes,” he whispered. 

 

“I still feel it too, but it doesn’t hurt like it used to. I still feel the tightness in my skin, but I don’t let it constrict me. I still feel him, Joffrey, hitting, burning, lashing me, but I need to move on. I need to make sure that I can remember it without wanting to shrivel into the small being I was.” Her voice cracked, and she took a deep breath in. 

 

“You’re forced to face your scars every day, and I can’t even imagine. You’re quite possibly the strongest man I have ever met. I’m able to hide in a big shirt, and forget everything for a few hours because I have you next to me. This was the first time I was able to sleep without crying from the dreams.” 

 

Sandor stood at the doorway, not sure what to do, where to look, or what to say. 

 

“I thank the gods every day you were the one to be there - that you were the one to save me.” 

 

“I didn’t save you.” Sandor said as he looked at the floor. 

 

“If you didn’t, then you did the next best thing, you gave me a chance to save myself.” Sansa got off the bed, and entwined her fingers with his. 

 

He stared down at her hand, confused as he could be. He looked at her perfect face, and saw her eyes were clouded with tears. 

 

“What’s wrong?” He brought his other hand to her cheek, to wipe away the tears. 

 

“I don’t know, I just feel so much, do you feel anything?” 

 

“I... I feel,” Sandor dropped her hand, and took his hand away from her face, “I need to… I don’t...” 

 

He turned suddenly, and fled down the stairs. He slammed the door to his studio, leaving Sansa standing in the doorframe staring after him.

 

****

 

Sandor stood staring at the empty canvas for what felt like hours. It could have been, he didn’t have a clock in here for that reason, He hated tracking time as he worked. But now, it was like he was in a purgatory - trapped by the edges of this blank canvas. 

 

He mixed colors together, but they didn’t feel right. He went to paint a black line, but couldn’t get himself to mar the perfection of the white. 

 

Is that what he was afraid of? He couldn’t touch her because he would ruin her perfection? 

 

He knew damn well that was the reason. He was nothing but an old hound, and she was fit to rule kingdoms. It was just a matter of circumstance why she was living in his house. 

But gods, she was perfection, despite the physical flaws of her skin, as minor as they were, she was definition of beauty. He thought of the word beauty, and he thought of her smile; he thought of the word gorgeous, and it was the way her eyes gleamed against the sun; he thought of divine, and all he could imagine is her. Because to him, she was all there was - she was divinity. 

 

Without thinking, Sandor’s hands started sweeping the brush across the canvas. Soft lines met with jagged angles. Colors burst against each other. Shapes began to form around each other, and soon a single shape took form. Of course, it was her. 

 

He could paint again. 

 

Her soft face smiled as her hands held a small bird close to her heart. The heavy woods behind contrasted with her bright figure. Her hair twisted in the wind. 

 

What felt like days later, Sandor dropped the brush onto the table. His hands were covered in various colors, but he was done. He had finished a painting, for the first time in months, he felt something. 

 

Barely taking another second to look at the piece, Sandor turned to open the door. He stepped out to see the sun just beginning to touch the treeline. 

 

“Sansa?” He looked in the kitchen, and the living room. He bounded up the stairs, and founded her sitting by the window. 

 

“Sandor? What happened?” Her eyes were red, and her voice was scratchy. 

 

“I don’t know.” He let out a heavy breath. “I painted. I painted you.” 

 

“Me? You painted me?” Sansa scrunched her eyebrows together. 

 

“It was effortless.” Sandor took a step closer to her, “Everything with you is effortless. I - I don’t know how-”

 

“Can I see it?” Her voice cut him off. 

 

Sandor didn’t have a chance to answer because she walked past him, and went straight into his studio. 

 

“Sansa,” he followed her. As he caught up to her, he saw standing next to the stool where he sat for hours. 

 

“This is how you see me?” Her voice was just above a whisper. 

 

Sandor didn’t know how to answer, so he just nodded. 

 

“I look beautiful.” She looked back at him with tears in her eyes. 

 

“You are beautiful.” 

 

He took a step towards her, and she did the same. Soon, he held her cheeks in his painted hands. Her eyes drifted closed, and he hesitantly put his lips to hers. Hers were so soft, and perfect. 

  
Her hands gripped his shoulders. He let a hand drop to her waist and pulled her closer to him. The kiss stayed sweet and slow; there was no need for anything more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment what you think!


	9. We're Broken

Her nightmares didn’t disappear, and neither did his. Her bruises didn’t magically fade away overnight, nor did the slight tremor in her voice. His awkwardness around her still clung to him. Just because they had kissed didn’t mean everything that was their truth dissolved into the air to be whisked away by the northern winds. 

 

However, there were slight changes, whether it was the soft touches to his arm as she sat next to him on the couch reading a book, or the first smile of the morning as she woke up.  _ No,  _ Sandor thought to himself,  _ we’re still broken - but maybe this is some hope for us. _

 

Barely more than a week had passed since their first kiss, and there were only a few more since then. He looked at her lips whenever he had the chance - without her noticing. He had never had a woman willingly kiss him like that; no one had ever wanted to kiss him. His hand drifted to his face unknowingly and traced the scars on his cheek. Sandor looked at Sansa’s lips as she mouthed the words as she read one of the few books he owned. 

 

Sansa looked up then, and smiled sweetly at him. Scooting over on the couch, she gently took his hand from his face and laced her fingers with his. 

 

“You know, I’ve noticed you touch your face when you’re in deep thought.” 

 

“Aye, is that so, little bird?” Sandor’s voice was rough.

 

“And you, sir, are not very forthcoming with your thoughts.” Sansa laughed softly, and brought his hand to her face. “What were you thinking about?” 

 

Sandor’s eyes watched Sansa play with his fingers, and felt her smooth skin against his rough hands. He couldn’t tell what he was thinking, that she was only feeling this way because he had brought her to his house, away from the scummiest most abusive man he had seen. He felt as though he kidnapped her and she just hadn’t realized it yet. 

 

He still didn’t speak, trying to think of what to say. She hadn’t really seen anybody else but him in months - did she forget what normal people looked like? Or how they act? Maybe if she could just see others, she would remember how she ought to treated and who she should be with - someone normal, and beautiful, like her. 

 

“Do you want to go out? Like off my property, where other people are?” The words came out so suddenly, Sandor wanted to bite his tongue. 

 

“What?” Sansa asked, still not letting go of his hand, instead she started tracing soft circles on his skin.

 

“There’s a small pub, a real shithole, in town. It’s small, but you haven’t seen other people or had an actual conversation with someone who wasn’t me in months.” Sandor mumbled the words, not fully wanting her to hear them. 

 

“I had a pleasant conversation with the postman yesterday.” Sansa laughed. 

 

“I don’t get post.” Sandor grumbled. 

 

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t say hi as I saw him driving down the road.” She tightened her grip on his hand, and brought it down to her lap to play with his fingers. 

 

“So is that a no?” 

 

“Well, of course, I’d go with you. I just don’t have any good clothes.” Sansa looked down at the too big jeans belted at her waist, and an old painting shirt tied into a knot on her hip. 

 

“We’ll pick more up; we’ve been meaning to, haven’t we?” Sandor sat up straighter. 

 

“Alright then, Sandor, take me out.” Sansa kissed his cheek. 

 

***

 

_ This was a horrible mistake, _ Sandor thought to himself as he parked in the parking lot of  _ The Keep _ . 

 

He wore dark blue jeans with a black thermal long sleeve. This was nicest he had dressed in years; he had attempted to comb some of his hair over the scarred half of his face, but he knew that it was pathetic and it wasn’t going to work. 

 

He glanced over at Sansa; she looked gorgeous, as she always did. He had given her his bank card earlier, and waited for her outside of this small shop that she stared at every time they drove through to town to go to the lakeside. She was in the store for less than twenty minutes before she came out carrying three bags and a wide smile on her face. 

 

Now she was sitting in his truck, her hands tucked into dark green mittens resting on her lap. She wore a long pale purple dress and white sweater under her dark jacket. Her hair was braided over one shoulder with a few strands left out to frame her face. 

 

“Oh! This is exciting, is that live music?” Sansa gripped his forearm as she leaned forward trying to look into the windows. 

 

“Sounds like it.” Sandor replied noncommittally. 

 

“Well, let’s go.” She undid her seatbelt, and smiled at him widely. “I’m famished.” 

 

He stepped out of the car, and opened the door for her. She stepped out carefully. Wind brushed against them, winter finally starting to take it’s hold. 

 

“How many times have you been here?” Sansa asked as he held the door open for her. The warm air was welcoming against the growing cold. 

 

“Just a few.” Sandor replied. He saw a table for two in the corner, partially hidden from view. Pressing a hand to the middle of her back, he steered her towards it. 

 

He felt people watching them as they walked through. He could feel the burning of their eyes on his skin, his mutilated skin paired with her pure, soft skin. He resisted shifting his body as he walked through, trying to ignore the pressure growing at the base of his neck. 

 

People crowded in the bar, many laughing with each other, others by themselves sitting at the bar with a pint in hand. A local band played on the small stage towards the back of the bar; they didn’t sound horrible. Sandor felt Sansa’s steps go in time with the beat of the music. 

 

As they reached the table, Sandor pulled a chair out for Sansa, and she stripped her heavy jacket off to reveal the white cardigan over the long pale purple dress. She sat down, and smiled sweetly at him. 

 

“Thank you, Sandor.” Her voice was music to him. 

 

A waitress sauntered over to their table. She wore a white, deep V-neck sweater over a black bra, and tight pants. Her black hair was tie into a bun on the top of her head. He ignored the prolonged look of shock on her face before she started speaking to them. 

 

“Hi there, anything I can get you two to drink?” She smacked a piece of gum and smiled too widely at them. 

 

“A pint, whatever’s on tap.” Sandor looked at Sansa, her leg brushed against his under the table. 

 

“And for you?” The waitress tilted her head. 

 

“Oh gosh, um, a glass of white wine?” Sansa smiled at her, and said her thanks as she walked away. Sandor could watch her forever. 

 

Sandor looked around, and he saw multiple young men glancing over at Sansa. He watched their sweeping looks from her feet to the her gorgeous head of red hair. But Sansa didn’t, she didn’t really look at anyone but him. 

 

The waitress made her way back, and set the drinks down. Sansa ordered a burger with extra fries, and Sandor did the same.    
  


“She seems like a lovely person,” Sansa watched as she walked away, and disappeared into the kitchen. 

 

“Oh, I’m sure.” Sandor snorted, and made eye contact with a man by the doorway. He slipped outside. 

 

“Be nice, Sandor. She’s good at her job.” 

 

“Aye, sorry, little bird.”

 

“Your hair is different,” Sansa pointed out, her hands playing with the ends of her own hair. 

 

“I brushed it.” Sandor shifted in his seat awkwardly. 

 

“I like it, but I also like it a little wild. Which is how it usually is.” Sansa’s nose scrunched together as she laughed at him. 

 

The pair of them bounced back and forth on different topics of his attire to her shopping when the server brought out their burgers. 

 

“Anything else I can get for you two?” She asked as she set ketchup and mustard on the table. 

 

“I am perfectly perfect, thank you.” Sansa smiled at her, and took a bite of a fry. 

 

“There is something about food that you don’t cook yourself that makes it so much better.” Sansa stated, and started squirting ketchup in the corner of her plate. 

 

Sandor cut his burger in half, and started picking at his fries. “Do you want my pickles?” 

 

Sansa held out her hand, and ate them as soon they touched her skin. 

 

“That is disgusting.” Sandor shook his head. 

 

“Now, Sandor.” Sansa bit her lip before taking a bite of her burger. 

 

They ate mostly in silence, but not the the awkward silence Sandor was always afraid of with her, but the comfortable silence that was the same as if they had eaten here a hundred times before. 

 

Sansa had two more glasses of wine, and Sandor one more pint. He could still feel people watching them. As people started trickling out of the bar as the night grew on, the more intensely he could feel people watching them. 

 

“I’m going to use the restroom,” Sandor excused himself and walked towards the other side of the bar, maneuvering through people dancing to the music. 

 

As he walked back out of the restroom, he saw Sansa speaking with three men standing around the table. She was smiling at them with a sweetness that only she could possess. 

 

He started walking towards, knowing what was being said, knowing that she was finally speaking with other people and it was going to be the beginning of her realizing that there was more to the world than a scarred man who happened to be at the right at the right time. 

 

“I’m sorry, I’m here with Sandor. Thank you for the offer, it’s quite flattering.” Sandor heard her soft rejection, and saw the slight quiver in her lip. 

 

“The hound? You’re telling me you’re with the bloody hound?” The man closest to Sansa sneered. 

 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means,” Sansa stood now, and the men took a step back. She looked up and saw Sandor. 

 

“You haven’t heard about him? The bloody fucking hound, the worst man alive. I heard he murdered his brother for what he did to his precious face.” The man was obviously drunk. 

 

“Harry, is it?” Sansa put a hand on his arm, “I don’t… I think that wasn’t very nice. And completely untrue, now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to have a drink with Sandor.” 

 

She looked over to him, and reached out her hand. 

 

“Thank you again for the offer, gentlemen, but I’m going to ask Sandor if he’ll dance with me.” Sansa wrapped her fingers with his, and he pulled out of the way of the men.

 

His heart was pounding in his chest. He heard what that twat Harry said, and he tightened his free hand into a fist. 

 

Sansa slowly brought him to the dance floor, and wrapped her arms around his neck, and got to her tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “Ignore them, Sandor.” 

 

He brought his hands to her waist, and gripped the fabric of her dress. Listening to the breathing, and feeling the warmth of her on his skin helped bring him to calmness. The music was slow, and they started spinning slowly among the dwindling number of patrons in the bar. In the distance, he heard the prat Harry laughing with his friends, but when Sansa pulled her head away to smile at him, and kiss his lips, it melted away. 

  
Sansa kissed him long and slow, bringing her hands from his shoulders to his neck to his cheeks. He bent down, and she was on the tip of her toes, but it felt right. His hands didn’t leave her waist, afraid that if he changed anything this moment would shatter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays! 
> 
> love you all! x0x


	10. It's Your Favorite

Winter came in one night; the morning before the sky was clear and bright, but as night fell, clouds hung low in the sky. Thick snowflakes blew across the sky, creating a soft blanket of white on the ground. Sansa sat in the window for hours watching, a small smile on her face all the while. 

 

Sandor walked up behind her, barefooted in sweatpants with no shirt. He brought a cup of tea for her, and one for himself. He pressed his hand into the small of her back, and she turned to him. 

 

“Oh, thank you.” She smiled her thanks, and took the tea with both her hands. “Is this lemon?” 

 

“It’s your favorite, isn’t it?” Sandor took drink of his, and sat by Sansa on the window seat. 

 

“I don’t remember telling you I loved lemon.” She bit her lip before taking a sip. 

 

“It’s the only tea from my cupboard you drink.” Sandor stated, and looked outside for a few moments. 

 

“How observant you are, Clegane.” Sansa chided. 

 

“Now, Stark, you wouldn’t be mocking me, would you?” Sandor leaned in close, and he could smell the lemon on her breath. 

 

“I would never,” Sansa rested her forehead against his. 

 

_ It would be so simple to kiss her right now,  _ Sandor thought. He watched her eyes close slowly, and then he saw her touch her tongue to her lips. Hesitantly, he brought his free hand to her arm, and started trailing his finger up and down lightly. He felt goose prickles appear on her skin. Her eyes drifted open now, and she kissed him. 

 

The window against his back was cold, and the cups of steaming tea between was hot. The meeting of their lips was like the sun beating on their skin on a cool spring day - perfect. She kept both hands on her cup, and he felt the hot cups against his chest. 

 

Her lips broke away from his, but she still kept her forehead on his. 

 

“Sandor,” she whispered. 

 

“Yes?” He replied, his voice hoarse. 

 

“Your lips are soft.” She smiled, and looked at him. 

 

“Nowhere near as soft as yours, little bird.” 

 

He broke away from their embrace, and took a long drink of his tea. Over his mug, he watched her wrap her arms around her legs, and rest her chin on her knees. Her eyes followed the falling snow with great interest. 

 

“First time you’ve seen the snow, little bird?”  

 

“I always love the first snow. My sister and I had this stupid tradition, we would run outside after the first good snow, no matter the time or where we were, and make a snow angels. It was usually at night and in our pajamas, but it was perfect.” Sansa smiled to herself as she spoke. 

 

“You don’t talk about your family.” Sandor said quietly. 

 

Sansa stayed quiet for a few moments, taking interest in the mug. Then she drew in her breath, and let out a small sigh, “No, I don’t.” 

 

“You don’t have to; I wasn’t trying to make you. I just... you love them don’t you?” Sandor rambled, unsure of what he was actually trying to say. 

 

“Yes, of course I love them. They’re my family, how could I not love them?” 

 

Sandor shifted, knowing exactly why someone could not love their family. 

 

Sansa looked over at him, “I didn’t mean you should love them under all circumstances. My family was always close. We loved each other, and supported each other. There was never any hatred in our family.” 

 

“How nice that must be.” Sandor whispered into the cup. 

 

“It was. My sister and I never really got along, but gods, we loved each other.” 

 

“Was it just your sister?” 

 

“No, I had Arya, my sister, and then Robb, Bran, and Jon, my brothers. And there was my parents obviously.” Sansa said in just above a whisper. Her finger was circling the top of the mug. 

 

“That’s a big family,” Sandor said. 

 

“Yeah, mom always said that was the way to a family. My dad wanted us to have a support system in case something ever happened.” 

 

“And did you? Have the support, I mean.” 

 

“I do, I did.” Her voice fell on the last word. 

Sandor thought for a moment, and hesitated before speaking, not knowing how she would respond. 

 

“Sansa, can I ask you something?” 

 

She looked over at him, raising her eyebrows slightly, “Of course you can.” 

 

“When you said your mother thinks you’re dead, what did you mean?” He asked quietly while gripping the mug tightly to his chest. 

 

Sansa stared at him for what like years. Her eyes conveying every emotion in her head. Tears welled up, and started spilling over. Sandor just watched her, never knowing how to help her. 

 

“Joffrey - Joffrey told my mom…” her voice trailed off;she brought a free hand to her face, and angrily wiped the tears from her face. “Joffrey was so sweet in the beginning, so sweet. He gave me presents, and took me out to all the best places. He hated my family though, especially my sister. He hated them.” 

 

Sandor slowly held his hand out to hers, and she grabbed it thankfully. She gripped his hand as if it was the only stable object in the world. 

 

“I wanted to end the relationship when my father died. I hadn’t been happy for a long time, and he started… started…” 

 

“I know,: Sandor whispered, not wanting to make her say it, 

 

“I did it in public, so he wouldn’t lash out like before, but it didn’t matter. He dragged me back to his place, and told me we were going to get married. Nothing could ever stop us, because we were in love, he said.” Sansa murmured, and Sandor was no longer sure if she was even speaking to him anymore.

 

“He doesn’t know what love is,” Sandor commented, more to himself than her. 

 

“No, he doesn’t. He never did, there was something wrong with him, there is. He thinks love is controlling the other, making them do whatever you want from them, and not thinking of them. I didn’t even get to go to the funeral because of him. I loved my father.” Sansa whimpered. 

 

Tears were falling consistently down her face, but her voice wasn’t catching as it normally did when she cried. Sandor watched in some sort of awe as she held herself together so well - she was stronger than anybody he had ever met. 

 

“I haven’t talked to my mother in almost three years. Joffrey told her that I had been in an accident, and I didn’t want to see her. I tried calling her, I tried sending letters, but he caught me each time. And each time the punishment got worse and worse, so eventually I just stopped.” 

 

Her voice fell to a whisper by the end, as if she were ashamed. 

 

“Sansa?” Sandor set his cup down, and got to his knees so he was right in front of her. He gently took her chin between his fingers. “You are not to blame for what he did to you.” 

 

“I know,” her lip quivered as she spoke. 

 

“Do you?” Sandor took his other hand, and gripped hers. She had to know he was here for her. 

 

“I know,” Sansa whispered. 

 

“Your mother must have known that you loved her, and that you still do. She’s your mother, Sansa. She would never forget you.” 

 

“How can you know that?” She choked out, her voice thickening now. 

 

“I don’t know, but I do. Anyone would be a fool to forget you.” Sandor gently wiped a tear away with his thumb. 

 

“I don’t know how to deal with this… this pressure in my chest. How do you do it? How do you stay so calm all the time?” She practically sobbed out the words; her hands were making movements around her chest. 

 

“Just let it out, Sansa.” Sandor whispered. His heart fell in his chest, knowing it was his questions that sparked this. 

 

“I can’t… I can’t. It’s stuck in me, like a heavy paperweight. I can’t get it out.” 

 

“I’m here for you, Sansa. You can trust me, just try to let it out.” He got to his feet, and carefully gathered her in his arms. 

 

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and buried her head in between the crook of his shoulder and neck. Her hair tickled his arm, and her breath moistened his shoulder. He could tell she was trying to control her breathing, but each attempt made it more erratic. 

 

“Sansa,” he whispered close by her ear, “Do you want to sleep?” 

 

Sansa looked up at him, her eyes swollen and red. Her lips were swollen, and she bit her lip. 

 

“How are you so incredibly perfect?” Sansa leaned her head against his shoulder. 

  
_ I am so far from perfect, little bird.  _ “Let’s get you into bed.” 


	11. Perfect Kind of Imperfect

They were sitting in the living room; Sandor reading a book with his legs stretched out on the coffee table, and Sansa was laying across the couch, her head resting in his lap. He thought she had been sleeping. He lazily turned the page of the book he had read about a dozen times before. 

 

“Sandor,” Sansa blurted suddenly, “will you teach me how to paint?” 

 

“Teach you to what?” Sandor asked; his hand played with her hair mindlessly. 

 

She got up suddenly, and turned towards him, and ended up practically on top of him. “It’s snowing buckets out there, come on, Sandor. Teach me something.” 

 

He simply turned his head to see the snow coming down harshly, filling the whole landscape with white. Then he looked at her face, it was playful, and she bit her lip slightly. Her hair was caught at the top of her head with a pencil, pieces fell out carelessly around her face. 

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of the phrase “snowing buckets” before.” Sandor laughed at the mock hurt she plastered on her, and kissed her forehead softly. 

 

“Do you not want to?” Sansa creased her eyebrows together. 

 

“It’s not that, Little Bird, I just don’t think I’d be a very good teacher.” He said truthfully. He thought about the state of the studio; since he had started painting, it had felt like a wall had been broken. The only thing was, he could only seem to paint her, or anything that reminded him of her. So there were canvases lining the table of her face, her hair, her body.  

 

“You always sell yourself short, Sandor. Come on, you’ve spent the past four days holed up in there. You only came out for food and water.” Sansa placed her hand on his bicep and squeezed. 

 

“Were you getting lonely?” Sandor questioned mockingly, knowing she had refused to get out of bed those days,and had instead watched the four movies he owned repeatedly.

 

“No, I want to learn. It’ll make us closer.” She winked at him, and then bit her lip. 

 

Sandor let out a heavy sigh, “One flower.” 

 

“A flower?” Sansa spluttered, backing away from Sandor on the couch. 

 

“Take it or leave it.”  He replied easily. 

 

“What about a tree?” Sansa crossed her arms, and raised an eyebrow. 

 

Sandor kept his face straight, but inside, he smiled wider than her ever could have thought. She was astoundingly beautiful, especially as she sat on the other end of the couch in one of his sweaters that she had picked up for him, even though she had clothes of her own now. She had rolled the sleeves up three or four times, and her long legs were free from the hem. 

 

“Why would you want to paint a tree?” 

 

“Why would I want to paint a flower?” She retorted, her lips pursed. 

 

“I don’t know why you would want to paint anything.” 

 

“Says the artist!” Sansa practically yelled it. She made her way back over to him, wrapped her arms around his torso, “Sandor, if I ask kindly, will you do it?” 

 

“Aye, I might. Or I might do it for a kiss.” He wanted to hit himself for saying something so idiotic, but looking at her lips took his right-mind and ran it through a blender. 

 

“Well, I am very stingy with my kisses, but for you, I would give a million.” Sansa whispered with no hesitation. 

 

Slowly, she raised her face to be level with his, and pressed her lips to his. He brought his hands to her arms, and ran them gently up and down her sleeves. Her lips were warm, as was the rest of her body. She smiled against his lips, and pulled away slightly. 

 

“Is that worth a tree?” She laughed breathlessly. 

 

“That, little bird, is worth the whole damn forest.” He pulled her back to his lips. 

 

****

 

Two hours later, after he had put all the canvases of her on the top shelf, and cleared away a small space for them at the front of the table, Sandor led Sansa to the canvas board. 

 

“This isn’t what you paint on.” Sansa pointed out blandly. 

 

“No, I paint on canvases I make myself.” 

 

“Oh, why do you have this then?” She asked as she picked it up, and looked at it closely. 

 

“For when I practice.” Sandor didn’t like the amount of questions she was asking. 

 

“Oh okay,” She set it back down, and brought her hands to her hair, playing with the pencil that was somehow holding her hair up. 

 

“So, I guess to start, you have to decide what colors you want to use.” Sandor grabbed two bins labelled  _ PAINTS,  _ and set them in front of her. 

 

“There’s so many,” Sansa exclaimed looking inside them. 

 

He watched her eyes widen in something like amazement. When she pulled her hand out, it was smeared with dried paint. She laughed, and wiped her hands on the old grey sweatpants she changed into earlier. 

 

“Okay, what’s next?” She smiled up at him. 

 

“I normally sketch what I’m going to paint,” He handed her a pencil. “Go ahead.” 

 

Sansa took the pencil, and started drawing short feathery lines. After she finished drawing the drunk, she hesitated and looked over at him, “I don’t think I know how to draw a tree.” 

 

He stepped closer to her, and peered over her shoulder at the canvas, “Do you want it to be in full bloom, or in the winter?” 

 

“I wanted autumn,” she whispered timidly. 

 

“Okay, so you want to draw the branches like,” he covered her hand with his, and took control of the pencil, creating longer strokes to define the limbs of the tree, “this. And keep it steady.” 

 

“Okay,” she whispered, mostly to herself. He saw her eyebrows knit in concentration, and her eyes followed his hand intensely. 

 

He drew practically the whole tree for her, but with his hand over hers. Sandor showed her how to mix colors together to get a certain color, and then demonstrated next to the tree how different strokes give different textures. 

 

“You try,” he handed her the brush, and she slowly attempted to mimic his movements. 

 

So they stood like this for an hour; Sansa trying to do what Sandor had shown her, not realizing he had had practiced for over ten years. He could see her frustration under the surface as he saw make the mistakes that were common for beginners. He remembered making the same ones. 

 

“Try this instead,” Sandor would say when he saw her fingers tighten on the brush, and would reposition her hand. 

 

She let out a heavy breath, “I don’t know how you have the patience for this.” 

 

Sansa dropped the brush into his hand, and looked over her half finished tree. “You do the other half.” 

 

“This is your tree,” Sandor tried handing the brush back to her, but she shook her head. 

 

“My hand hurts from keeping the brush still. No wonder you have such good forearm muscles.” She laughed quietly, and brought her hand to the back of his neck. She played with the ends of his overgrown hair, “Well, come on.” 

 

As if he would be able to do anything while she was touching him, but nonetheless, he brought the paintbrush to the canvas, and in both and quick long strokes. Sandor glanced over at her, and smiled to himself. Her eyes were lost in the movements of his hands. 

 

Roughly fifteen minutes later, he set the brush down, calling it good enough. 

 

“It’s not fair,” Sansa muttered to herself. 

 

“What’s not?” Sandor rested his hip against the table, and crossed his arm over his chest. 

 

“You have all this talent,” She whispered, “and you do it so flawlessly and effortlessly. I just can’t imagine.” 

 

“I’ve been doing this for a long, long time, little bird.” 

 

Her eyes flicked over his face, and then his body, and back to his face. “Do you remember when you painted me?” 

 

_ Which time?  _ He almost said it aloud. “Aye, I remember it quite clearly.” 

 

“I have never felt so beautiful. I got to see myself how you see me, how you really see me. I wish I could show you how I see you.” 

 

Sandor pushed off the table, and walked towards the other side of the room, not wanting to hear what she was about to say. There was no good that could come of this. 

 

“I know what you’re thinking, Sandor. You think that you’re big, and scarred, and ugly. And yes, you’re big, which isn’t a bad thing, at all. I love it. And yes, you’re scarred, but you are nowhere near ugly. Gods, Sandor, I wish I could make you see how I see you. You would see so much,” Sansa padded towards him, hands reaching out to him. 

 

“You would see, your eyes, so fierce and grey, and so full life. I swear, I could write sonnets about them. And you would see your hands,” She gripped his hands for emphasis, “and how strong, but gentle at the same time. If only I could make you feel them as I do when I search for them in the middle of the night. 

 

“And you would see your face, as ashamed of it as you are, and you see that I wouldn’t change it, I wouldn’t change a bit, because that pain, that horrible pain, made you the selfless man you are now-” 

 

“Selfless? You can’t be serious, Sansa.” Sandor interrupted her with a harsh voice, much harsher than he intended. He stepped away, his hand tracing the scars. “These scars have not made me selfless - they took everything from me. People cringe when they see me; they can’t look at me in the eye, because they are too damn disgusted with how it looks. It made me cold and harsh, and it took  _ everything  _ from me.” 

 

He slammed his fist on the table, and Sansa jumped. He looked over at her, and saw tears welling in her eyes.  _ Fuck,  _ he thought to himself. 

 

“Sansa,” he said quietly, not sure if he should move towards her. He decided against it - she looked so fragile. And this time, he had caused it. 

 

“I didn’t mean,” she swallowed a lump in her throat, “I just wanted to...  I’m sorry.” 

 

“No, Sansa, I know, I know.” He put emphasis on the last words. “I - just, my scars are the one thing I just can’t…”

 

He stayed silent for a few moments and then whispered, “I would  _ never  _ hurt you.” 

 

“I know,” she mumbled, not quite meeting his face. 

 

He took a step forward, “I’ve never been a nice man, Sansa. Taking you in, that was the only act of kindness I’ve given anyone in a long time, maybe it was the only time. I’m not a selfless person. But with you, I’m a completely different person. Like I said, people judge me before they even know me. But not you. I’m still convinced this is some kind of dream… I would never hurt you. But I don’t regret helping you; I will never regret it.” 

 

“I know, Sandor.” Sansa took a shaky breath, and walked around the table and to him. She slipped her arms around his waist. “I was just trying…” 

 

“I know, Sansa. I just don’t think I am the kind of man that can sit and accept compliments. It’s just not who I am.” 

 

She leaned her head against his chest, “You made me feel like the most beautiful woman alive, and I wish I could do that for you.”

 

Sandor wrapped his arms around her, and rested his chin on the top of head. He didn’t need that; he never would. All he needed was Sansa holding him like this. 

 

“I will continue to make you feel beautiful, every day. I will also control my temper, because I never want to see that look in your eyes again. I am so sorry, Sansa.” He kissed the top of her hair. 

 

For the first time in a long time, he was ashamed of himself. 

 

Sansa looked up at him, and smiled, all traces of tears gone from her eyes, “You may not be conventionally beautiful, but you’re the perfect kind of imperfect for me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I am nearing the end of this fic soon, so start preparing yourselves. 
> 
> i love you all! xxo


	12. Runaway Bride

Sandor never had a snowball fight. He never built a snowman, or made snow angels. Sansa had done all of these. And now that she was seeing snow again, she wanted to do everything. The fluffy flakes that carelessly fell to the ground piled into mountains of two feet and higher, trapping them in their house. 

 

That’s how he thought about it now,  _ theirs.  _ Not his, not anymore. She was here now. Every room had a touch of her now. She had rearranged the living room so the couches faced the window, and added some of his paintings to the walls. It looked like a home now. He never thought he would have a home. But here she was now,  _ his home. _

 

Now that they were snowed in, Sandor stood over a pot of coffee. The furnace had been acting up, and for the moment it had decided to stop blowing hot air. Sandor wore a zip up fleece that Sansa had bought during her last shopping expedition, and heavy sweatpants. He turned to see Sansa curled into a ball on the couch, wrapped in what seemed like ten blankets. He didn’t even know if he had ten blankets. 

 

Carefully, Sandor picked up his coffee and a cup of hot chocolate for her, and brought them into the living room. The heat of the mugs was welcome against his cold hands. 

 

“Here you go,” Sandor whispered as he held out the mug to her. Even with her head buried under an oversized hat and the bags under her eyes, she was gorgeous. It confused Sandor beyond belief. 

 

“Oh, thank you so much,” Sansa thanked him gently, and grasped the mug as if it was the only source of heat. 

 

“As soon as the snow stops, I’ll make my way to check on the fire out there.” Sandor gave an involuntary shudder as he thought about it, but he smiled at her. 

 

“Well that’s alright,” Sansa sat up so he could sit next to her, “This is kind of nice, sitting next to you, buried under all of these blankets with the snow falling heavy. It’s like it’s out of a movie.” 

 

Sandor didn’t reply, instead he just stroked her arm slowly. This moment, one like the few before, gave him hope.

 

***

 

“Gods be damned, this fucker will be in the trash next week.” Sandor cursed as he threw down a wrench next to the broken furnace. 

 

“Everything going alright?” Sansa asked from the couch, her hands with another mug of tea. She watched Sandor with bland interest as he laid on his side attempting to fix the faulty furnace. 

 

“Does everything sound like it’s going well, Sansa?” Sandor snapped back. 

 

“Well I don’t know what goes into fixing anything. Maybe we should call to get someone to fix it.” 

 

“I know how to fix a damn furnace, Sansa, it’s just taking a little while longer than I’d like.” 

 

“And that’s why it’s going into the trash, right?” Sansa smirked at him, and got up from the couch and sat next to him. Her long fingers wrapped around his hand still holding the wrench. “I adore you, Sandor, but I think we may just need to get a new one. How old is this one anyway?” 

 

Sandor let out a heavy breath, and he could see it. Grumpily, he looked up at her, “I don’t know; I think it came with the house when I bought it.” 

 

“And how long have you lived here?” She moved behind him so she could wrap her arms around his neck and move her chilly fingers down his warm chest. 

 

He glanced down at her hands, and then back upwards at her, “A while.” 

 

“That’s what I thought,” She smiled against his hair and kissed his head. “I’ll find the phone book.” 

 

Her fingers trailed off him, and he grabbed her hand just before she went out of his reach. Gently, he pulled her into his lap, and let his rough fingers trace her face. Her freckles faded dramatically, leaving her pale skin looking empty. She looked well rested as she smiled against his hand. A fact, and a change in the past months, that made him genuinely happy. 

 

“What is it you’re doing, big man?” 

 

“Distracting you,” he whispered, his lips almost touching hers. Their breath left them in a cloud of condensation in the near freezing room.

 

Her breathing deepened slightly as his lips teased the corners of her mouth, then her nose, then over lips to kiss her chin delicately. She tried to meet his lips, but he avoided them to kiss on cheek, and the other. 

 

A small noise of dissatisfaction came from her, and he smiled. He locked her hands in his - despite the size difference, they fit remarkably well in his. Her legs tightened against his hips. 

 

“Sandor, what are you doing?” She whispered breathlessly. 

 

“Embracing every piece and every inch of you. Why? Does this bother you?” He asked as he pressed a firm kiss to her beautiful neck. 

 

“Ah - no, no it really doesn’t.” 

 

“Or this?” He kissed her collarbone through her sweater, while still keeping her hands in his. She tried to let go, but he held her tight. 

 

“Oh… Sandor,” Sansa let out a shaky breath. 

 

“I’m not a perfect man, or a kind man, but I will never stop trying as I can have you in my arms like this.” He let her hands go, and ran his hands under her sweater to feel the perfectly smooth skin of her back. 

 

She shivered against his hands, but she slid closer to him on his lap. This was the closest they had ever been, in all the months of her staying with him. He had never touched her like this. 

 

The cold air hit her back, and he felt the gooseflesh rise. Slowly, he lowered her sweater back down, and instead wrapped his hands around her arms, and pulled her down to meet his lips. Hers were always so soft, every part of her was, and she kissed him so willingly. 

 

He thought after this long he would be used to it - used to Sansa Stark wanting to kiss him, wanting to touch him. But he wasn’t, he felt her when she was near him. He felt as if his nerve endings would implode if she touched him for too long. 

 

His hand wrapped in her hair as they deepened the kiss. He gave a small tug to expose her neck, and he began to kiss when he felt her freeze. Her entire body stiffened at his touch, and her breathing ceased. 

 

“Sansa?” Sandor pulled back to look at her face. “What is it, Sansa?” 

 

Sansa didn’t respond, but instead, simply slid off Sandor, and sat next to him. He couldn’t hear her breathing. 

 

Afraid to touch her, Sandor grabbed the blanket that slipped off her, and laid on her lap, “You can talk to me, Sansa.” 

 

“I… I’m just going to find the phone book.” And with that, she walked away, leaving the blanket in a heap behind her, and leaving Sandor sitting there, watching her. 

 

***

 

“Yes, a furnace, yup. Ah, yes. Sandor Clegane. C-L-E-G-A-N-E. Yes, we’re off of County Road 5, it’s the only house for acres. It has a green mailbox, and an old beater for a car in the front. Yes. Yes, so noon? Tomorrow? We’ll be here, yes. Thank you so much. Have a wonderful night, you too. Bye.” 

 

Sandor sat at the kitchen table, watching Sansa chirp into the phone. She hadn’t spoken to him in almost an hour. Instead, she called four different repair shops, and had finally found success. She spoke sweetly into the phone, and made eye contact with him once or twice. When she did, she smiled sweetly, then looked away. 

 

As she hung up the phone, she walked over to put it back on the counter. “Tomorrow, noon.” 

 

“I heard,” Sandor stood, and went to grab her hand as she placed the phone down. When she flinched, he stepped back.

 

“What is it, Sansa? What did I do?” He knew his voice sounded desperate, but didn’t try or care to stop it. 

 

“I’m sorry; I just need… I don’t know, Sandor. I can’t explain it.” She looked up at him, her eyes a wide sea of troubled emotions. 

 

“I was pushing too far, wasn’t I?” He stepped back once more, just to make sure to give her enough space. 

 

“It’s not… It’s not that I don’t want you to…” She breathed in deeply, and wrapped her arms around herself.

 

He studied Sansa, watching as she looked around the room, refusing to settle her eyes on him. He watched as she ran her hands up and down her arms. He saw her eye fill, and her lip start to quiver. 

 

“Please don’t be mad at me.” She choked out. 

 

He stared at her, utterly dumbfounded. “Mad at you? Why in the seven hells would I be mad at you?” 

 

“I know that you… I can’t… I’m not ready… And your hands, I just…” Words failed her as she tried to convey to him what was racing through her mind. 

 

“Sansa, please look at me,” he stepped closer now, and gently touched his hand to hers, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay? I wasn’t thinking, I didn’t even think. I’m sorry.” 

 

“You’re not mad?” She played with the zipper of his sweater and looking up at him. 

 

“I have nothing to be mad about. I’m willing to move as slow as possible with you. I am,” he took her chin between his fingers, “the luckiest man in the world to be standing here with you. I will never push you farther than you want, you just have to tell me. Okay?” 

 

She nodded, and stepped into his arms, “Thank you.” 

 

“Let’s go watch a crappy movie.” 

 

“Sounds perfect.” 

 

***

 

The static from the television and the harsh wind hitting the window woke Sandor with a start. Sleep still clinging to his eyes, Sandor slid a hand out from underneath Sansa, and rubbed his eyes vigorously. Then he reached for the remote to shut the damned TV off.    
  


Sansa shifted into his chest, and nuzzled closer. 

 

“Sansa,” Sandor whispered as he glanced at the clock on the wall. It was barely after seven. “Sansa, let’s get you upstairs into bed.”

 

“Hmm,” She moaned into his chest, which he could only take as that she refused to move. 

 

Slowly, he got out from underneath her, and turned to scoop her into his arms. Effortlessly, he walked up the steps to his bedroom. He laid her down, and placed the warm quilt over her. She mumbled something, but turned her head into the pillow. 

 

He gazed over her for a few moments, falling hopelessly in love with her, but never giving words to his feelings. Never fully voicing what was mulling in his mind. 

 

“Coffee,” he whispered to himself. “I need coffee.” 

 

He stalked down the steps with full intention of making a hot pot of coffee, but the blankets on the couch called him. He fell face first into the pillow. 

 

***

 

Loud knocking roused Sandor for the second time. He woke in the same position he had fallen asleep in - face down into the pillow and his feet hanging off the edge. He pushed himself to his forearms and stretched out his back. 

 

The knocking intensified as he started to get to his feet. “Hold on to your fucking horses, seven hells.” 

 

He opened the door to a man in coveralls, and a cursive name tag that read,  _ Trant _ . 

 

“What?” Sandor grumbled, keeping the bad side of his face away. 

“Furnace?” This Trant said. 

 

“Oh, is it noon already?” Sandor looked behind him to see the clock. It was only eleven. “You’re early.” 

 

“Got done with my jobs quicker. Want me to look at it or not?” 

 

“I’d prefer you actually fix, but you can start by looking at it.” Sandor opened the door, and showed him where it was. “How long will this take?” 

 

“Hard to say, let’s hope for an easy fix, eh?” Trant laughed, and set his bag down and began tinkering away at the old bloody thing. 

 

Sandor wandered into the kitchen to start the coffee he wanted hours ago. 

 

“So, how long have you lived here?” 

 

“A while,” Sandor replied, pressing the start button on the coffee. 

 

“Well, how’s long a while? Because I’ve here for almost my whole damned life, and only seen your face once or twice. And sorry, mate, you have a remarkable face.” 

 

Sandor ignored his comment, and didn’t respond as he heard the ringing of metal. 

 

Trant worked in silence for a few more minutes. Then he opened his mouth, “I seen you with that ginger, haven’t I? The tall, gorgeous, long legged minx. I coulda sworn I seen you two at the pub.” 

 

Holding his hot cup of coffee, Sandor leaned a shoulder against the doorframe to the kitchen. He glanced up the stairs where Sansa was more likely than not sleeping soundly. 

 

“What’s it matter to you?” He got defensive. 

 

“Just trying to make conversation, mate. How does a bloke like you get a fine piece like that? Unless of course, you either pay her or kidnap her.” He let out an ugly laugh, it came deep from his belly. 

 

“I’ll remind you that you are in my house,” Sandor glared at the man, hating him by the second. 

 

“Of course, sorry mate. Just trying to make conversation, you know. But I did see you with her. A couple of times, you both don’t really socialize, do you?” 

 

“We keep our own company.” Sandor walked back into the kitchen. 

 

Seconds passed into minutes, and the minutes passed into an hour. Trant was still rattling away at the furnace, attempting to make conversation, but Sandor kept shutting it down. 

 

Sandor heard the water turn on upstairs, and knew Sansa must have woken up. 

 

“Is that her up there? What’s her name? Tell me your secrets, mate.” Trant smiled at him, a disgusting and creepy smile, even to Sandor. “I’m almost done here.” 

 

The water turned off, and minutes later, Sansa was walking down the stairs. 

 

“Sandor, they should be here any -” Sansa cut off as she saw Trant finishing up. 

 

Trant looked stricken for a moment, but quickly let out an easy smile. “Well, the lords have shit blessings on me today. It’s Sansa Stark.” 

 

“Meryn.” Sansa whispered, and quickly crossed to Sandor. 

 

“It’s been awhile, quite awhile. I think the last time I saw you, you were wearing all white, and sprinting away.” He laughed. 

 

“I think it’s time you left,” Sandor scrunched his eyebrows together in confusion, but felt Sansa digging her nails into his arm. 

 

“I think so too, I’m all done here. You should have hot air, no more freezing.” He walked himself to the door. Just before leaving, he turned back to the pair of them, “Oh, Sansa, don’t think Joffrey’s forgotten about you. He’s still looking for his runaway bride.” 


	13. No One Does

“Explain it to me again,” Sandor paced the length of the kitchen once more as he finished listening to Sansa’s shaky voice repeat the story of Joffrey and Trant. 

 

“Sandor…” Sansa pleaded with him, “I don’t want to think about it. I had no idea he was north - he hates it up here.” 

 

“No, I have to understand Sansa. Please, explain it again.” He put emphasis on the last word. He  _ needed  _ to understand. 

 

“You already know the story. Meryn was one of Joffrey’s closest friends, and he… helped him, I guess. He was practically one of his bodyguards, defending him when Joffrey was in the wrong, or striking down whoever Joff wanted. Including me. He gave more me bruises than Joff, I think. Looking back on it, Joffrey rarely laid a hand on me in comparison to Meryn.” 

 

“And he was in our home?” Sandor spat the words out, furious with himself for letting the rat bastard leave. 

 

Sansa sat there, wringing her hands together. Her lip trembled, but she quickly bit it, trying to compose herself. 

 

“He’s going to find me.” She whispered. 

 

“What?” Sandor looked over at her from his perch at the window. 

 

“He’s going to find me. He won’t stop.” She stood now, running her hands through her tousled hair. “He hasn’t stopped - for months, he’s been looking for me. His  _ pet _ .” 

 

She spit the last word out with so much disdain that Sandor opened his mouth in shock. 

 

“He’s going to find me and take me back. I can’t go back.” Sansa shook her violently, and the tears came out silently, and her breath grew heavy. 

 

“You won’t go back,” Sandor walked the few steps to her and wrapped her in his arms. He ran his hand down over her hair and squeezed the other arm around her. “I will kill them all before I let you go back with that monster.” 

 

Even as he whispered the words over her, he felt like a traitor. Wasn’t he a monster? Just of a different source? A different kind? 

 

“Sansa,” he paused, unsure of what he wanted to say. “I have some money, maybe you could go start a new life, far, far away from here.” 

 

Sansa pulled back, “Without you? Is that what you’re saying?” 

 

“If that’s what you want - if that’s what would make you feel safe.” He looked down at her, and he could feel his scars. How could she look at them? He wondered this every time she looked at him. 

 

Her eyes, her beautiful sea colored eyes, looked over him. Confusion lurked beneath the surface, “Do you not know how safe you make me feel?” 

 

“Aye, little bird, I don’t.” His eyes drifted closed as he felt her move up to plant a firm kiss to his lips.

 

“Never doubt what I feel for you.” She whispered against his skin.

 

***

 

Winter’s grasp took firm hold as the month went on. Winds gusted through the trees, shaking snow to fall heavy on the ground. The sun was constantly hidden behind the low clouds. The house was warm now, but that didn’t stop the pair to stay within touching distance of each other. 

 

Sansa still woke in the middle of the night, shaking and sweating, feeling both Joffrey’s and Meryn’s hands on her skin. Sandor could feel her stiffen as she pretended to sleep next to him, laying so still on her back. He knew she was staring at the ceiling, hoping to get rid of the horrid memories she knew would seared into her brain forever. 

 

Sandor would reach over to her and lay his arm across her torso, hoping the feeling of someone with her would help. She would roll into him, and he could feel the shaky breaths turn to light sighs of sleep. It was only after she fell asleep, he would close his eyes and fall asleep himself. 

 

He would dream of Meryn - his hands on Sansa, then his head on a pike. They didn’t satisfy him, especially not now as he watched Sansa standing in the kitchen looking at the window as if an attack was being laid on the small house. She wound her arms tightly around herself, her eyes were dark with sleeplessness. Soft, unsatisfying sighs came from her lips. 

 

“What is it, Sansa?” Sandor came up behind her, and placed her hands on her arms. He leaned down and placed a soft kiss on her temple. 

 

“Just thoughts.” 

 

“Thoughts, eh? What could a poor man like me do to know those thoughts?” 

 

“I think these ones are just for me, big man.” She turned to face him, and kissed his scarred cheek. 

 

Before he could say anything, she spoke, “It’s somewhat warm today, why don’t we take a walk?” 

 

“Warm in the middle of winter is still freezing, little bird.” 

 

“It’ll be warmer by the lake.” 

 

“Still freezing.”

 

“Sandor,” she looked up at him, her eyes wide with hope. “I’m bored, let’s do something.” 

 

“Aye, I knew you’d get sick of me.” He smiled down at her, and laughed at her raised eyebrow. 

 

“I’m sick of the four books I’ve read over and over. Come on, big man.” She tugged at his hand, pulling him to the door. 

 

“I guess you’ll be wanting to go down the bookstore too then.” 

 

“Well, only if you insist.” Sansa smiled smugly at Sandor as she handed him his jacket. 

  
  


***

 

Sansa strolled through the small aisles of the local bookstore, her hands already filled with books. Sandor was following close behind, getting distracted by books of art and woodcraft. He had found four already and they were in there for less than twenty minutes. 

 

He noticed the small cashier girl watching them, but ultimately becoming uninterested and going back to her book. She didn’t look at his face for too long - something Sandor found strange. 

 

“Sandor,” Sansa called from a nook near the back of the store, “Can you help me get this one? I can’t reach it.” 

 

Sandor followed her voice, and found her straining on her tiptoes to get an old looking book on the top shelf. He came close behind her, and with her breath tickling her neck he reached and took the book she was aiming for. 

 

“There you are, little bird.” He looked over her shoulder, and saw it was a book of old fairy tales. 

 

“I read this when I was little. My father would do the voices to the characters.” Her voice grew small, and she smiled as she flipped through the pages. 

 

“You’ll want this one too?” Sandor grabbed the other books out of her hands.

“Yeah, I think so. I’m going to read this one for a little bit. Then I think I’m done,” Sansa said absent-mindedly. 

 

“Okay,” Sandor juggled the books in his hands, “I’ll be right back.” 

 

Sandor set the books at the front counter, and the girl without looking up from her book said, “All set?” 

 

“Yes,” Sandor replied. 

 

She placed a paper in her book to mark spot before looking up at him, “Find everything alright?” 

 

“Seems like it,”  Sandor reached around for his wallet as she pressed numbers into an old register.

 

She looked up at him, and her eyebrows pushed together. “Are you Sandor Clegane?” 

 

“Why?” Sandor handed her cash, his heart still. 

 

“I was down at the pub the other night, and there was a man walking around asking for you. He said you were… you were, well, scarred.” She grabbed the money and rang it into the register. 

 

“What was he saying?” Sandor took his change, but kept his eyes on her. 

 

“I think it was something along the lines that you took something of his. He looked pretty drunk; it was kind of disgusting actually - going to anyone and everyone who would give him any attention.” She said this all non-committedly, with a slight shrug. 

 

“Sandor, don’t forget this one.” Sansa came up behind him, pressing her hand into the small of his back. She placed the book on the counter as the girl was putting their books into a paper bag. 

 

“Oh, shit.” Sandor whispered, “This one too.” 

 

“Okay,” she said, and typed more into the register. “Eight dollars and fifty three cents.” 

 

“I love your glasses,” Sansa smiled at the girl. 

 

“Oh, thanks. I love your hair - I wish I had it.” Her smile was more sincere now. 

 

“Oh, that’s so sweet.” Sansa looked down at the ends of her braid, and played with them. 

 

“Excuse me…” Sandor trailed off, not knowing her name. 

“Kassandra,” She supplied. 

 

“Yes, when was this exactly?” He glanced at Sansa, hoping to not be suspicious. 

 

“Ah, I think it was, yeah Monday night. Two nights ago.” 

 

“Thank you, very much. Have a great night.” He ripped the books off the counter, forgetting his change. 

 

Sandor bounded towards the door, Sansa’s hand in his. 

 

“Sandor, what is going on?” Sansa’s breath shown in the cold air, the day dark with the low cast clouds. 

 

“Nothing,” he looked around, sure he could be anywhere, “Nothing, let’s just go back. I’m tired.” 

 

“No, Sandor, you promised me a walk around the lake.” She tugged on his arm, and kissed his cheek. “Please.” 

 

Sandor’s heart pounded in his chest as he looked around the near empty street. 

 

“Sandor, come on, let’s just go for a ten minute walk.” 

 

“Fine,” He kissed the top of her forehead, and opened the car door for her. 

 

***

 

The air was warmer by the lake, but they still held onto each for warmth. They went along the paved route, laughing in each other's company, watching the winter birds fight for the seeds on the ground. 

 

“They’re so cute.” Sansa squealed and squeezed his arm in delight. 

 

Light snowflakes started falling around them, coating the grey pavement. It was the sound of footsteps behind them that pulled him out of this little daydream. 

 

“Sansa,” a choked voice called. 

 

Sansa immediately tightened against Sandor. He glanced down at her, not recognizing the voice. 

 

He turned back to see a scrap of a little man with dirty blonde hair and translucent skin that revealed an intricate pattern of blue veins. 

 

Sansa opened her mouth to speak, but choked it back. Sandor’s eyes followed hers to see a shotgun resting in his hands, pointed at them. His hands were shaking - this man had been unstable for quite sometime.

 

“Joffrey,” Sandor supplied his voice quiet. 

 

“And the Hound, I presume. The one that kidnapped my bride.” He snarled out the last word, his eyes glaring at Sansa. 

 

“Joffrey, I do not think this is how we should do this.” Sandor spoke each word clearly and slowly. 

 

“You stole my  _ bride _ !” Joffrey made a move for Sansa, and Sandor instinctively stepped between them. 

 

“Get out of my way!” Joffrey waved the gun. Sansa choked back a scream, her nails dug into Sandor’s jacket. 

 

“No, drop the gun, Joffrey.” Sandor could feel Sansa’s breathing quicken. His eyes not leaving the gun that he noticed Joffrey click the safety off. 

 

“You don’t get to tell me what to do!” Joffrey’s voice rose again. “I had everything - the house, the job, the family, the  _ whore _ . And she thought could leave me, me! She didn’t get to leave me. No one does.” 

 

Sandor watched his fingers tighten on the trigger, and then heard the near deafening blast. He didn’t feel it as quickly as he heard Sansa scream. 

 

“Sandor, no! No, no, no.” His hands reflexively tightened around his stomach. He looked down to see a growing stain of crimson. 

 

“Sansa,” he whispered. 

 

“Sandor, no. Please, hold on.” He saw Sansa stand up, and he heard another blast. 

 

“Enjoy him in the seven hells, whore.” He saw a blurry Joffrey walk away. 

 

With great effort, he turned his body to see Sansa laying on the ground, the same crimson spot growing on her stomach. 

 

“No, Sansa.” His hand reached her stomach and he pressed firmly. “Sansa, please. I love you, please.” 

 

The world grew quiet to he only heard Sansa’s slow breaths. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm kind of terrible and have been hoping to update for MONTHS. but i have been plagued by work, school, moving, social life, and all that kind of stuff 
> 
> but i still love SanSan with all my heart and don't i can ever abandon them. I WILL FINISH THIS BEFORE MY SCHOOL STARTS.
> 
> love you all. <3


	14. Etched Into It

As his eyes opened, he didn’t feel the pain. He didn’t feel the excruciating pulling of his skin each time he moved, or the pounding that persisted behind his temples. He could only feel the worry that plagued his heart as he woke from the medicated sleep. None of his distress was physical, instead it was in his heart. Sansa - his mind only focused on Sansa. 

His mind replayed the last moments before Joffrey shot him. He kept trying to fix it in his memory - he could have taken the gun from him, he knew he could have. But he didn’t, and now he didn’t know had become of Sansa. He didn’t know where she was. He couldn’t get his mouth to move to give voice to his thoughts, and he was scared. 

Though his eyes were open, he couldn’t focus on anything. Everything around him was hazy as if he was underwater. He turned his head side to side trying to get his body to move with purpose, but he couldn’t control himself. A tall blurry figure came to his side, and with all he could do, he tried to speak to it, but nothing came out. Soon the world faded back to the darkness, and he felt nothing. 

***

The world was light again. Still hazy, but Sandor looked around and saw a woman standing in the corner. She had red hair swirled into a bun at the nape of her neck, and for the first time in however long, Sandor was able to speak. 

“Sansa,” it was as rough as the gravel of a dirt road. 

The woman turned, and it wasn’t her. Tall, and kissed by fire, but not the woman whose features he had memorized from months of gazing. 

“Mr. Clegane?” She said kindly, and stepped closer to his bedside. 

“Sansa?” He coughed out, his throat parched. 

“Mr. Clegane, please stay calm. I’m going to grab -” 

“I need,” he coughed roughly, “Sansa.” 

He felt a warmth on his lips, and the woman grabbed a small towel on a nearby table. She dabbed at his face. Once she pulled the cloth away, he saw it was red. 

“Sir, please stay calm. Relax, Mr Clegane.” 

He focused on her words, but couldn’t follow them, and kept saying her name over and over. 

Another person came into the room, and the world fell silent and dark once more. 

***

“Mr. Clegane? Can you hear me?” A sweet voice washed over him. 

Sandor pulled himself out of the grogginess, and opened his heavy eyes. Bright light filled the white room, and sunshine warmed the cold bed. 

He met a woman’s eyes that were filled with kindness. Her face was that of the same as Sansa - properness and sincerity. 

“Hello, Mr. Clegane. I know you are confused, and probably very frightened, but I’m here to help you. Now, we’re going to sit up, okay? It might hurt a bit, but you can just squeeze my hand.” She grasped his hand, and put a hand behind his back. 

“Sansa…” He whispered, scared that if he said it too loudly they’d take away the light again.

“We’re going to get you up first, Mr. Clegane, then we can discuss Sansa.” 

As he sat up, he could feel the pain blossom across his stomach. He groaned, and moved his hand to clutch the pain. The room began to tilt and swirl around him, and his eyes couldn’t stay open. 

“Seven bloody hells.” He moaned to himself. 

“Very good, Mr. Clegane. Now we’re -” 

“Sansa,” Sandor interrupted. 

“I can’t speak about -” She started saying, but he interrupted once more. 

“Where is she?” Sandor bit his tongue to stop from groaning in pain again. 

She looked around, obviously torn between two odds, “I can’t speak about other patients unless their family. I’m sorry, Mr. Clegane.” 

“Patient? So she’s here? She’s alive?” He felt his heart pound in his chest, and the monitor by him, or attached to him, began beeping faster. Relief flooded through him. 

“Well - Mr. Clegane, I can’t speak about - I just - I… You need to focus on your health right now.” 

“But she’s alive? She’s not… She’s not dead?” He felt the tears threaten to escape. She wasn’t dead.  
“I cannot speak about other patients unless you are family.” She warned. 

“She is my family.” He looked towards the ceiling, and felt his lip quiver. “I just need to know if she is okay.” 

She refused to say anymore to him, and silently helped him drink some water. 

***

Time was, Sandor decided, a cruel and heartless bitch. It was plentiful and dragging when nothing in the world could make you happier to have it pass, and yet, when all you desire is to stay in one moment forever, it passes by quicker than you can blink. Now he watched the seconds pass by slowly with little purpose, he thought of the fleeting moments of Sansa - he should have held them closer. 

What he thought had been a mere couple of days turned to be weeks, and what he now thought were weeks had been a handful of days. He thought of the possibilities that could have occurred in that time, and what happened to Sansa. 

Each time a nurse came in, he asked after her, and each time he was met with the same closed answer: They cannot discuss other patients unless you are family. 

Wasn’t he family? Did he not love her as family? Did they not share a home? A life? Did he not dream of her? Did he not reach for her in his sleep? Had she not reached back? 

Was it not her when she sang softly in his kitchen? Was it not her hands that brought him back to reality? Was Sansa not the one bright thing in his life? Had she not been the one to make him believe in family once again? 

What was family if it didn’t mean to be given purpose and life? Sansa was family - the only one true that he had ever known. Now he was told that he couldn’t know if she was even here or not. If she was okay. 

Tears burned at his eyes, and he didn’t try to hide them as people walked past. They could watch him like a caged animal - he was broken down as one. 

***  
This morning, Sandor woke with numbness in his stomach instead of pain. The absence of pain felt deceiving, but he was grateful nonetheless. With slow and deliberate movements, he sat up and lowered his bare feet to the cold tile. It sent shivers up his spine. 

He stood slowly and carefully - tentative to not tear the stitches. It felt good to stand on his own two feet. The cold tile brought goosebumps to him, but it felt good. He walked around the room slowly, not trying to draw attention to him. He listened distractedly to the noises in the hallway. Nurses speaking about their children, or their lunch. Doctors ordering the nurses around, and the nurses talking behind the doctors’ backs. 

He was turning on the countless loop of the room when he heard it. Her name. He moved closer to the door, and listened intently. 

“She was walking yesterday -” 

“What did Doctor... “ 

“Oh, who knows, I don’t care about…” 

He moved closer to the edge of the doorframe, trying his best to remain hidden. 

“Will they move her then?” A nurse with a small, squeaky voice said to the other one. 

“Oh, seven, I hope so. She’s doing so much better, she needs some sunshine in her life. First that, what was his name, John?” This one had a deeper voice, one of some sort of authority. 

“I don’t know, but LeAnne told me room 286 is asking after her every day.” 

“And the gods are the only ones who know how that gorgeous dove ended up with that hound.” She chuckled, then sighed heavily. “If only someone loved me as he did her.” 

“Have you heard her?” The squeaky voice pressed. 

“No, she rarely talks. Not to me anyhow.” 

“It’s in her sleep - she says his name in her sleep. Over and over. I heard it last week when I was on the graveyard shift. It’s heartbreaking.” 

The world started spinning around him, and Sandor gripped at the wall. She was okay. Sansa Stark was okay, and she was in the same building as him. He felt his heart pound in his chest. 

Hours passed before Sandor found the right time to sneak out of his room. The sky darkened and fluorescent lights now lit the hallways. He heard the clicking of a computer and the hushed whispers of nurses as they chatted, but tried to not wake any of the patients. 

Silently, he looked around the hallway before stepping out. He padded down towards one end of the hallway, glancing into each room. His heart raced with each room that disappointed him. He was so close to seeing her. He just had to see she was okay. He needed hope, and for once he had high hopes.  
The first hallway gave him nothing, as did the second. As he turned another corner, narrowly avoiding a nurse, Sandor saw a room set away from the rest at the end of the corridor. Keeping his steps silent, he made it to the door, and with a small nudge it opened. 

As if it were a painting he obsessed over for months, she sat there, staring outside the window, gazing at the stars and city lights. She wore the same white hospital gown as he did, and her hair was down her back, brushed delicately in soft waves. She was more than he could remember. 

The door creaked as he stepped into the room, and her head turned slightly. Her eyes looked heavier than before, if that could ever be possible. He doubted she had slept at all in the past week. 

He stood there, for just a moment longer, and soaked her in. He felt the familiar burning sensation of tears in the back of his throat, so before any tears could fall, he choked out a simple word. 

“Sansa.” 

Her body stiffened. Her head frozen, he saw her eyes move towards him. 

Taking another step closer, he reached his hand out to her, “Sansa,”

“Sandor?” She gasped. 

“Yes, little bird. It’s me. Oh gods, Sansa.” He closed the space between faster than she could stand. He knelt to the ground, and laid his head on her lap, clutching at the hospital gown. 

Even if he had cared, Sandor wouldn’t have stopped the tears that escaped him. Relief was flooding through him. Every wound, every pain, and every worry washed away as her hands ran through his hair. 

“Sandor,” she whispered, and lifted his head and she tilted hers down. 

“If I had known you were so close, I would have been here sooner, I swear it, Sansa. I swear it; I tried as best as I could. I just wasn’t enough.” He now knelt in front of her, and lifted his hands to her face. 

She didn’t say anything as she looked at the shadows of his face. Her eyes were clouded, but a brief smile appeared on her lips. 

“I am so sorry, little bird. I failed you in the most miserable and terrible way. Little bird, I am so sorry.” 

“Sandor,” she choked out. “Sandor Clegane. You’re here; you’re really here.” 

She gently traced his scars with her fingertips, then across his hairline to his jaw. He looked at her tired face, filled with worry. No other face had ever looked as beautiful. 

“Aye, little bird. I’m here.” He grabbed her hand with his, and kissed it. “I am so relieved you’re okay.”

“You’re relieved? No one would tell me anything - gods, Sandor, I saw you get shot because of Jof-” she cut herself off, not being able to finish the name. “I didn’t know what happened; I was so scared.” 

Sandor stood, and took a step away from her to look at her. He then reached his hand out, and pulled her close to him. He wrapped his arms around her, and she nuzzled her face into his chest. 

“Sandor,” Sansas whispered against his chest. 

“Yes?” He replied distractedly as he memorized the fit of her against him. 

“I love you.” she breathed out.

“I love you.” He whispered back, feeling the weight of his worries melt away. 

Silence surrounded them. A delicate, perfect silence that nothing could break at that time. In this silence, more was communicated than words could have ever conveyed. In the pressure of her hands, he felt her love. In the softness of his breath, she felt safe. When their hearts beat against one another, no pain, no wounds, no affliction had any sense of urgency. 

He had never intended to give her the broken pieces of his life, and nor did she. However, it was as if the broken pieces of their hearts melded together and each other their fingerprints are etched into the skin of it.

Silence, Sandor thought to himself, with her was more than he could have ever asked for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello loves, I did it. I finished it. This one was hard for me, so I hope you like it and that it was worth the wait. I love all of you. I hope you are living the most wild and precious lives <3 
> 
> love you all x0x0
> 
> P.S. I've noticed a lot of comments that there is a lot of openness in the ending, and i did that (kind of) on purpose. I don't include a lot of characters that aren't super involved with them because the story is mostly about them and hoped to give the impression that it doesn't matter what happened to them it's that they'll get through. now, I can rewrite and give what I want to happen to them if you all want. love you all

**Author's Note:**

> Love you all! xox


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